Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd
by Valiant Toaster
Summary: Peter Pan A.U set in a dark dystopian future. Here Neverland is where you'll never want to be taken to, Wendy is a single child and a hell lot more precocious and Peter Pan is how I have always viewed him, which means he's a manipulative bastard. I'm stuffing all the canon as is possible, although things have been... corrupted. Good luck, dear reader. You'll need it.
1. Prologue

Nᶒ√ᶒяlaᵰd:

Prologue

 **Right, so, has anyone actually noticed that Peter Pan (in the book), while quite young, is kinda… evil? Ruthless? A Bastard over all Bastards? And Wendy is just so focused on being a mother that she just sorta does…..nothing? I have taken it upon myself to fix this by setting it in a dystopia because Oppression Fixes Everything. Peter Pan, you have now been relegated to the stuff of nightmares. Good luck, dear reader, I made up a dystopia so it's probably going to have about a million similarities to** _ **other**_ **dystopias. Pairings if I make up my mind, but I don't wanna give away anything. Also, this is mostly book stuff, because I can't remember back to when I was five and saw the movie.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own this. And by this I meant Peter Pan. And by that I mean in a legal sense because I totally own a copy. That I own. Not in a legal sense.**

 **Anyway.**

 **Let us begin.**

" _The gaiety of those romps! And gayest of them all was Mrs. Darling, who would pirouette so wildly that all you could see of her was the kiss, and then if you had dashed at her you may have got it." –J.M. Barrie_

Wendy Moira Angela Darling lived at number 14 in a tall stout building, a little bit derelict and full of lower middle class families. The Darlings were so poor in fact, that they almost sold their old heirloom piano, the rotting one in the corner that was nevertheless played every Sunday when they danced to the old tunes like Jingle Bell Rock and Let It Go. The songs were so unlike the dirge variety that played in the streets over the constant intercom every second Thursday of the month that Wendy often wondered if they were songs at all. The piano was protected by an extremely upset Mr. Darling, Wendy's beloved father.

Wendy's father was a Bank Manager, a highly esteemed position, one that ranked third on his List of Important Things, after family and piano playing. He did so love the rickety old piano and played upon it every Sunday for their weekly romp. He was Chosen for Mrs. Darling at the age of nineteen and had proposed to her immediately. Strangers would say that they were besotted with each other. Those that knew the family would say that they had something much more precious; Respect. That was rated number four on Mr. Darling's List of Important Things.

Wendy's mother, Mrs. Darling was an enigma to everyone, including her daughter and husband and not to mention the Scanners that the population wore every night to bed in order to detect every disloyalty to the Nation. Her mind was like many boxes, one inside another, inside another, a puzzle so that the Scanners could never see what was inside that innermost box, what was hidden from the world. The Kiss.

The family were among the poorest living there but they loved each other and they were happy. Well they _seemed_ happy, as it was quite hard to tell with Mr. Darling's pianist tendencies and Mrs. Darling's innermost box and Wendy's penchant for getting into trouble and breaking the law by wearing a thimble around her neck almost constantly. Let us just assume that they are happy and move on.

Wendy was friends with the Robinson boys, John and Michael, because the only other child on the third floor was Jane Dutch, a rather snooty girl who, despite only being older than Wendy by a year at fifteen, pretended that she was all grown up and that she was rich and sophisticated. Wendy had no time for girls that were in such denial. She preferred playing with the boys, old games her father and mother had taught her, like Sardines and Hide 'n' Find, which was like Sardines, only in reverse.

They also had adventure games, and Wendy would pretend to be a cop and wave her sword about and the boys would be the burglars, climbing in with bows and arrows. The Watcher for that section took great delight in Watching the children play on the ever-present, nostalgically remembering his own adventures as a kid and swearing to himself that if Liza, everyone called her and Mrs and Mr. Darling and Liza's aunt, Nana, ever went missing for one reason or another, he would adopt them on the spot. That's how sweet they were, even if Wendy was old enough to know that cops didn't really have swords, she catered to the boys.

The boys and Liza and Nana, an old prim wrinkly lady who moved surprisingly fast, would join the Sunday dance, the boys getting under everyone's feet with their passion, especially Michael, who was quite young and didn't really understand the concept of "slow" yet. Liza was an old friend of Mr. and Mrs. Darling from their school days and she and Mrs. Darling got on famously, if awkwardly, well. The Dutch's from 27 were there too, of course, except Jane who found such things beneath her.

And so they danced, Mrs. Darling outdancing them all and Mr. Darling playing Tumbalalaika from a ripped and stained edition of Alfred's Basic Adult Piano Course Level Two. Everyone was there, except for Jane and Liza's husband, who had been arrested for being able to summon fire without a licence for an Ability. Even the Watcher was there, in a way, tapping along, ignoring the blatant disregard for the rules and hoping his superior didn't come in and find him watching them have a merry time on the cameras. The time got late and Nana eventually took them all to bed at Liza's place, tucking them in and leaving the lamp on to scare away shadows. She stood guard just outside the door, waiting for Liza and Mrs. Darling.

And so they came, giggling like a pair of school girls, slightly high on euphoria. They sobered up as soon as they saw the old lady though (Nana had that affect) and immediately entered to kiss their children good night and place their Scanners on their heads. Wendy murmured in her sleep. All was peaceful. Liza and Mrs. Darling sat comfortably side by side, watching the Scanners relay a constant feed to the Watchers.

The headband shaped Scanners glowed with a soft light, almost peaceful as they scanned for keywords and images, rummaging through her memories for something she may have done or someone she had caught sight of. That thought woke Mrs. Darling up quick. She watched as an amalgam of words and fuzzy pictures and shapes flashed across her screen, trying to see if someone they knew had been caught doing something they rather shouldn't have. Beside her, Liza fell asleep, a comforting presence that she hoped she was never rid of. The screen went on, trying to match up her daughter's mind with a column of names and offences and random words associated with defiance. It wasn't totally fool proof, you had to picture things in order for it to be swept up in the net, so to speak, but it was a good way of catching criminals who were stupid enough to show their faces or someone handing out anti-Nation pamphlets. That's how Mrs. Darling had kept the innermost box secret.

The screen scrolled down á la Matrix, the column running faster and faster in white print while the memories scrolled down at a leisurely pace. The column started being littered with bits of red, a name flashing by, almost too quickly to see what it was.

But Mrs. Darling saw it. She saw what it said.

 **PETER PAN**

She had seen it before, somewhere. It was cloudy on her mind, a storm cloud bringing death and destruction. Until she remembered.

Peter Pan was the product of Nations dark side, an urban myth everyone heard in some way or another. He was an assassin, immortal, forever young. He seemed innocent until he plunged his dagger into your heart. But there were worse stories about him, rumours propagated by the Nation that he took your children away to Neverland. And when they came back they were, _different_ , somehow. Much the same but different: Happy. Innocent. _Heartless._

The red spread like a virus, spreading everywhere. It took over the white and the rest of the screen, making it bleed and Mrs. Darling panicked and thwapped the screen, waking up Liza, but she didn't care, she just wanted everyone to _stay away_ , just _stay away_ from her wonderful daughter.

 **PETERPANPETERPANPETERPANPETERPANPETERPANPETERPANPETERPAN**

Angela broke down on the floor crying, sobbing, with Liza trying to comfort her.

 **Yes, well I warned you. But good news is: Mrs Darling** _ **finally**_ **gets a name! Hurray! And it works! Don't deny it. I made all of this stuff up at three in the morning. I'm not sure if it turned out well. Will be back next week in a whirlwind of the first chapter. Be prepared!**


	2. Chapter 1

Neverland:

Chapter One

 **I had a dream. A weird one. I dreamt that Mrs. Darling's** _ **true**_ **name was** _ **Tracy**_ **. It was weird. Anyway, the story starts proper, and believe me, I tried my very best.**

 **WARNING: I often stray from Barrie's style and segue into my Default Style Two. I apologise for the inconvenience.**

 **Guest: Liza was a servant of the Darling's in the book, I sorta changed it though….. Prologues are always as vague as hell, but I think I overdid it a little, sorry about that. Thankyou!**

 **Ginger: Really? *giggles. I'll try to keep it that way!**

 **Disclaimer: This, I do not own, even though there's nobody I could think of who could sue. Oh, well.**

' _Second to the right,' said Peter, 'and then straight on till morning.' –_ J.M Barrie

When Wendy woke up she quickly changed from her overlarge shirt into her school pinafore, ironed and starched shits and stockings. She hated the uniform with a passion and she looked forward to burning it when she turned sixteen in a couple of years. She stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth, not bothering to toast it and turned to go out the door, intending to race down to the bus. Her mother stopped her.

"Wendy," said Mrs. Darling, "Are you _sure_ you want to go to school today?" She was trying so hard not to cry, poor thing, but she had to behave as if everything was normal. That's how people coped.

Wendy just stared at her mum, blinking. Her mum had never asked her if she had to stay home before, no matter how much she complained that Miss Fulsom was a bloody bitch. She briefly considered staying home but that would mean she would have to back out of the dare and Wendy Darling _never_ backed out of a dare. She was obstinate that way. Wendy simply tucked her bronze thimble inside the collar of the shirt, threw her ribboned bag over her shoulder and hugged her mother goodbye.

The hug went on a few more seconds than necessary, Angela taking the time to blink back tears. Then with a melancholy smile, she waved her daughter off. Wendy didn't even look back.

Wendy stopped off by the door of the Robinsons and fidgeted while waiting, finally abandoning good manners and throwing open the door. Nana blinked up at her and then shook her head in a scolding manner, pulling a tie around Michael's neck.

"Miss Wendy, I am sure you are aware it is polite to knock first before opening the door," scolded Nana.

Wendy cast her eyes at the floor, "Sorry Nana."

John came running over, wearing that battered fedora he loved so much, "Hey Wendy! Guess what I can do!"

Wendy shrugged. "I dunno. Can you finally spell 'crudely'?"

John scowled. "No! Watch this!" He flipped his fedora in the air and it landed on his head perfectly, "Tada!"

Wendy smirked, "Congrat's," she snarked, "you can now enter in the Olympics."

John frowned, "What are the Olympics?"

"Now it not the time, John," reprimanded Nana, "You can talk as you walk."

They set off down the corridor, in a prim line, not a hair out of place and all fussed over by Nana, who liked it just so.

"The Olympics," began Wendy, "Happened a very long time ago and they were performed once every blue moon."

"Oooohhhh," chorused John and Michael dutifully, despite the fact that no-one knew what a blue moon was.

"Everyone in the _world_ tried to outdo each other with more and more elaborate celebrations and the most important bit of the festival," Wendy took a bit of rolled up maths homework and brandished it as if it were a torch, "The lighting of the fire." She proclaimed, a little too loudly.

"Pipe it down a little, Miss Wendy," shushed Nana.

Wendy blushed. "Right. So our ancestors participated in evermore opulent and lavish parties, wasting valuable time and money that could have been spent curing world hunger or something. They all tried to outdo each other, to be the best, the flashiest, the most expensive. The shows that went on! And then they were put a stop to somehow. I dunno…." She trailed off, wondering where to go from there.

"Miss Wendy," said Nana, drawing Wendy's attention to her, "We're here," she said tonelessly.

Wendy noticed that they were standing outside the boys' school and waved them goodbye, as John and Michael ran off, John clutching his fedora.

Wendy turned to go walk to her own school, but found her arm caught by the old lady.

"Miss Wendy," said Nana tartly, not unkindly, "I think it's time for you to grow up."

* * *

The Watcher watched the sweet Wendy girl argue with the old aunt, his heart sinking in his chest. He wouldn't be seeing them together again for a long time, and when she got back she would be different. She would act the same and look the same, happy and innocent. But she would also be something else. Heartless. That's always how they were when they got back. Got back from Neverland, had everything that was taken from them given back, although not quite right.

Behind him somebody crowed.

The Watcher jumped, almost falling half out of his seat out of fright. It was, of course, Peter Pan. He looked innocent, a baby, someone to be coddled and fussed over. The Watcher knew better. He knew if he didn't bow to the whims of this immortal. He. Would. Die.

Peter Pan simply laughed, finding the entire situation hysterical, before floating down from the ceiling and alighting on the chair back.

"Hello! I found you!" he said, sounding incredibly pleased with himself for finding a room which had he had been in a million times before. Of course, it would be likely he didn't remember. Peter Pan had a habit of forgetting.

"I have the disk right here for you," said the Watcher, giving Peter Pan the ring on which the entirety of Wendy Moira Angela Darling was stored, all the videos and test results and the Scan's, all ready to be twisted by Peter Pan's deft little fingers. Everything that Wendy had ever said or done was here, ready for scrutiny and experimenting and to be all taken away by Neverland.

He watched as the disk was snatched from his fingers and taken away by the little Peter Pan. It was gone. Well almost all of it. He had kept something back. The Watcher watched and smiled as Wendy argued and the thimble fell over her collar.

* * *

Wendy had aced her maths assignment on the criminal repeat crimes percentage, dominated the basketball court and managed to eat _all_ of her food during recess for once. She was going strong but it all came to a sudden halt with the Nation class. Miss Fulsom's class.

"Wendy Darling," said Miss Fulsom, "Tell me why the Nation is superior to other countries and the old empires."

Wendy stood up, wiping her hands on her pinafore nervously. She had a habit of snarking at Miss Fulsom in a way that got her in a lot of trouble. And by trouble she meant pain.

"Well, um," said Wendy, "the Nation is better than everyone else because, uh, we have rules so we can have peace and we have structure so we can-can-can-" Wendy stuttered.

Miss Fulsom twirled the cane gracefully around her fingers and raised an eyebrow.

" _can_ ," Wendy forced out finally, "we _can_ grow and prosper."

Wendy tried to keep back the unpatriotic words back, the words that would surely get her in trouble. Miss Fulsom waited too, knowing that the young girl had a mouth that disobeyed her brain and a filter that had been taken out to be cleaned long ago and never put back in. Both of them waited, until lo and behold, her mouth opened and the words fell out.

"But how do we know that they are better than us?" Wendy blurted, wishing her mouth didn't run on fumes, "We don't know anything about them! How would we know!?"

Miss Fulsom rapped Wendy's knuckles hard and Wendy restrained a whelp. Wendy couldn't be surprised really, that happened every week without fail. _Really._ Wendy thought. _I've got to stop saying stupid things_.

"Sit down." Miss Fulsom scolded.

Wendy sat down with a huff. The other students were giggling at her and her answer behind their hands and her face felt hot. Miss Fulsom wacked her on the back of the neck one more time for good measure and leaned in close, her hot breath tingling on Wendy's face.

"Miss Wendy, that mouth of yours isn't going to slow down, is it?" Miss Fulsom asked, tapping the cane against her thigh.

"No, Miss Fulsom," repeated Wendy the long suffering words.

Miss Fulsom hit Wendy hard against her cheek, the cane making a very satisfying THWAPP! sound. Tears filled Wendy's eyes and her cheek started going red. There was going to be a bruise there tomorrow.

Miss Fulsom raised her cane to deliver one more slap.

"Can you stop?" begged Wendy tiredly, "Please?"

Miss Fulsom lowered her cane and glared at her before returning to the front of her classroom and continuing her lesson. Wendy sighed in relief and tried to pay attention to her lesson. She needed to be in top condition for her dare after all. She never backed down a dare.

* * *

Peter Pan alighted on the window sill of Wendy's room, holding an EPulse in one hand and a small red bag in the other. Tinker Bell was already in the room, her wings tucked away and brandishing an EPulse of her own, investigating the house. It had been a plan of his, a very clever plan, to simply take Wendy as she came home. Very cunning, if he did say so himself.

"Aren't I clever?" he crowed to Tinker Bell.

Tinker Bell rolled her eyes, "You silly ass!" she said fondly, reaching over his arm and pinching his shoulder sharply.

Peter ignored her and flew about the house with glee, for nobody was home, with Mr Darling at the bank and Angela at 27 with Liza. Nana was ruffled, although she didn't know why, blaming it on the paranoia of an old woman. Really though, she would have been better off if she had listened to that nagging feeling inside her chest. They all would have been better off.

"Oh, George," Mrs. Darling had said later, "If only I had stayed, especially after what I had seen!"

"It wasn't your fault dear, nor Liza's, I should have listened to you when you told me about it," reassured Mr Darling.

"If only I hadn't insisted on having some fun to take your mind off things," lamented Liza.

"If only I had checked in," mourned Nana, "It was merely a couple yards away."

"My susceptibility to fun, dear school friends."

"My stubbornness and pride, caring wife."

"My insistence over worrying, Angela."

"My ignorance over my women's intuition."

They often did this, you see, gathering round the piano, just the four of them, and speaking about the Good Old Days, and wondering if they would ever see their dear child again.

But they question is, would they _want_ to see their child again, after Neverland was through with her?

Wendy balanced across the fence, feeling rather foolish, even though Wendy Moira Angela Darling never backed down from a dare, she rather wished she had, just this once, so she wouldn't be in this situation. Nevertheless, she had accepted the dare and was now exactly two meters from where she wanted to be. The ground.

"Come on Wendy! Don't you dare give up now!" yelled Garret Mar, a small girl with dark brown skin like the chocolate Wendy received every Christmas and birthday. She was Wendy's BFF, even if the two of them weren't sure what it stood for. It was important and that was all that mattered.

Wendy took another couple of steps, then stopped to make sure that the ground wasn't flying towards her face. Her balance was perfect but her nerves were not. Wendy was scared of heights. A trickle of perspiration was currently making her white shirt damp and not-so-white and she was sure that at any moment the fence would collapse or explode. She swallowed.

"Just a couple more steps!" shouted Garret. "Keep moving before I come up there myself!"

Wendy half ran to the edge of the fence and then climbed down and lay on the dirt, exhausted.

Garret wandered over and poked Wendy with her shoe, "Get up, and don't be lazy!"

Wendy opened her eyed and groaned, "I am never moving from this spot again!"

Garret dragged Wendy to her feet and to her next lesson. Garret was surprisingly strong for her size.

As they walked, Garret got a feeling. Maybe it was a premonition of what was to come. Maybe it was her women's intuition, much like Nana's, although she wasn't quite a women yet. Or maybe she just felt uneasy. Whatever the case, Garret now got up the courage to ask Wendy about something she had never asked before.

Her thimble.

"Hey Wendy," said Garret, "What's with the thimble?"

Wendy turned to her. Wendy was quite pretty in her own way, with her hair longer than was the style and her eyes a dark brown. Her face was thin and her mouth quirked at the corners, much like her mothers.

"Mum gave it to me," she said. "I think it was Liza's. She looked quite sad, so maybe it was Liza's husbands or something. It's an old thing from ages ago, for protecting things."

Garret examined the thimble. It was quite small, and cap-shaped, and although pretty, looked incapable of protecting anything. "That thing?" she asked incredulously. "It's tiny!"

"So are you, Garret, and that doesn't stop you. The thimble seems to be doing its job so far."

Oh dear Wendy.

Why did you to go and say that?

 **John is now wearing a fedora. Deal with it.**


	3. Chapter 2

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Two

 **I am back bearing gifts. I bequeath to you, the second chapter.**

 **Yes, I am late, no I don't care. I stray from Barrie's style a lot but y'know, I tried.**

 **Ginger: She's around 13/14 but really childlike….**

 **Ara Iglesias: A million billion thanks! I'll try.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own this but you don't own it either….**

 _In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime….._ \- J.M Barrie

* * *

There was a certain way things would have gone, if things had gone the way they did on Peter's plan. But that was inevitable really, because while Peter was good at most things, planning was something in which he was lacking. If everything had gone to plan, Wendy would have opened the door, Peter would have talked her down enough to get her to come with him or she would have been restrained by both Tinker Bell and him and carried off to Neverland. The red bag was for emergencies only. So of course they used it.

What really happened went like this:

Wendy, having to be unable to go with Garret to her home or bring Garret to hers because of different living districts, had felt lonely and desolate. She decided to take a detour and walk with Michael and John, something she normally never did. They normally revelled in being able to walk home alone, but, well, she just enjoyed their company so much. Then they wanted to go to 14 with her, to play coppers, and she just didn't have the heart to tell them 'no'.

And thus, when Wendy opened the doors to her room, there were visitors with her. Seeing this, Peter and Tinker crouched in a corner and let their own shadows hide them. Wendy didn't notice, and quickly took off her pinafore and stockings and put on a pair of shorts. Then she made believe with John and Michael that they were stranded on an island far away (Wendy's bed, really) and that they were slowly starving to death.

Michael lay on the sand, holding his stomach, while Wendy and John looked on worriedly.

"He seems to be getting weaker," said Wendy, leaning down and clutching Michael's hand in hers.

John frowned, twirling the fedora around his fingers, "If only we weren't so weak ourselves. Wendy."

Michael coughed in mock pain. They were hungry most of the time, but they always had enough strength to go on. But in make believe, everything was worse.

Peter watched in fascination. He often made believe himself but it was always a novelty to watch Wendy do it. He almost jumped up himself to join in but Tinker Bell held him back, after all, it was only a matter of time before the boys went home. And go home they did, with Wendy waving cheerfully after them. She shut the door and sighed, then decided to go to bed early, as her father was at work and her mother was god-knows-where.

She was dressed in an oversized white shirt and underwear, curled up in the covers like a bird in a nest, clutching her pillow to her chest. The power had been cut, not a sliver of light to be seen to keep watch over Wendy. Tink was surprised about how young she looked. Her file had said she was fourteen. Peter Pan moved to the centre of the room and coughed slightly to wake her up.

Wendy slept on.

Peter scowled quietly and kicked the bedframe, putting a splinter in his foot and fell to the floor with a thud. Wendy rolled over in her sleep. Tinker Bell rolled her eyes and pulled Peter to his feet before marching over to Wendy's bed and hauling on Wendy's hair.

"Wake the fuck up!" yelled Tink.

Wendy jerked awake and in front of her she saw a young women in a white dress...with wings…and an EPulse. Pointing it at her. On the floor beside her was a young boy with all his baby teeth. He grinned up at her and pointed his own EPulse at her.

"People!" she said, "why the bloody hell are you in my bedroom?!"

Tinker Bell thought it best to not make the girl cry out and alert the neighbourhood something was up. True, Nation would fix it, but that would take a lot of effort that could be spared. Tinker opted for diplomatic. She put away her EPulse. Big mistake as it turned out.

SMASH! A jar collided with her head, shattering into a million pieces. Tink stumbled backwards with her hand to her head. God that kid was quick.

But Peter was quicker.

Wendy was restrained quickly against Peter's body, his arms around hers, and her face against his chest. Suddenly he seemed a whole lot older.

"We're not going to hurt you," said Tink, so the girl would stop squirming and they could make a getaway.

There came a muffled shout of Wendy ordering him to let him go. Peter did and sent Tinker Bell a look. She knew what that meant. It meant _don't let her do that again._ Tink nodded. She would have to keep an eye out.

"What's your name?" he asked. Tink wasn't sure if he couldn't remember or was trying to manipulate her. It was really quite hard to tell sometimes.

"Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she replied with suspicion. "What is your name?"

"Peter Pan."

Wendy felt sure she had heard it somewhere before, but she couldn't remember where. Nevertheless it stuck a chord of terror within her heart. She backed away a bit but kept the determination and fearlessness on her face.

"Is that all?" she asked bravely.

"Yes," he said rather sharply

She asked where he lived. Tink noted that Wendy's words seemed to be getting away from her. Her hand tightened on her EPulse.

"Second to the right," said Peter, "and then straight on till morning."

Tink wondered how Peter had managed to mangle _that_ out of where they lived. That boy was quite insane sometimes, immortal or not.

"Would you like to go there?" asked Peter and Tink realised that he was still struggling through with his plan.

"Really?" said Wendy doubtfully, "I mean, why would I want to go there?"

"Well Wendy, we need your help. Nation needs your help," admitted Peter.

"Why does Nation need me?"

"You are a very special girl, Wendy. And one girl is more use than twenty boys," Peter said flatteringly.

A pleased look went over her face, quickly followed by suspicion. Peter saw it though, and it was enough.

"Wendy," he said, coming closer. "Would you like to be an important person in the plans of the Nation?"

"Would I really be important?" she wondered aloud.

"Oh yes," said Peter cunningly. "We can fly away together to Neverland."

Wendy took a step back with a terrified look on her face, "F-F-Fly?" she stuttered, "I can't- I don't like heights.

Too late.

Fast as thought, Peter poured the contents of the red bag onto his hand and blew it into Wendy's face. Wendy slumped suddenly, having to lean on Peter for support. Tinker Bell supported her to the window, and worked on getting the drowsy girl over the window sill. Although they could fly, it would be a struggle to get her to Neverland.

"Let's just walk, you silly ass," Tink said.

* * *

Nana checked her watch and decided that the women were going to be dragged home, she didn't care if it was their day off; they had children to look after.

Nana stalked her way down to number 27 and knocked impatiently on the door. She was let in and immediately assaulted by the sound. At least fifteen chatting women were in the room, all slightly drunk. Nana threw up her hands in exasperation.

"Nana." Nana turned her head to see her dear niece being clutched by a puffy-eyed Mrs. Darling. Neither of them were the slightest bit drunk.

"Nana," repeated Mrs. Darling, "I want to go back. I need to see Wendy."

Liza tried to pull Mrs. Darling back into the hub, "Oh no Angela, you need to settle down and stop being so restless. It isn't helping anybody."

Nana frowned, "The _children_ are getting restless," she snapped, "You need to take responsibility Liza!"

Liza sighed and they all started walking down the corridor, Mrs. Darling looking vacant and Liza looking like a child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.

They stopped at No. 14 and Liza placed a hand on Mrs. Darling's shoulder.

"Try and relax," she said, "you need to calm down and handle things."

Mrs Darling nodded. She didn't appear to have heard.

Now, usually Mrs. Darling was a logical and precise person, who liked everything just so, and although there was room for nonsense it was a neatly tucked away box of fun. But Mrs. Darling was terrified, almost as much for herself than Wendy. She knew what she saw and there was no mistaking the danger that lay ahead of them.

 _Wendy is alright._ Mrs. Darling reassured herself. _She's asleep in her bed, and everything will be just fine_.

Mrs. Darling walked into Wendy's room.

And stared.

There was a shattered jar on the floor and the window was open, letting in the cold fingers of the wind. Wendy wasn't there. Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and promptly collapsed.

* * *

Wendy's head felt fuzzy and her body felt like it was floating. There were people's voices echoing around in her head and she was barely aware of the fact she was moving. She moved her head slightly and caught sight of rails, pavement and a thousand little lights flashing, reflected by the water. She hadn't been here before, past her Living District, here where there were a thousand lights and everything was shiny and there were noises of people inside, people busy, people sleeping, richer people than her in nice clothes and a funny way of speaking.

She giggled, unaware of the glance Tink sent her. What had she been thinking about? Oh yes, lights, camera's reflecting lamps and lanterns and streetlights and twinkled like the stars she read about. The night seemed lighter than day and Wendy could read the signs that designated the streets. Only the streets in the political districts had names. Was that where she was? It seemed right.

She drank in the names greedily. Kensington. Maeve. Elizabeth. Morning. Morning Street was the one they went down, surrounded by sheer buildings that towered over them. They went into one surrounded by barbed wire, the one second to the right. There was a plaque over the door. It read:

 **Nᶒvᶒяl** **a** **ᵰd**

They entered a large reception area, governed by a single receptionist, a very old, wrinkled lady, older than Nana even, with a large hooked nose like a witch and wide black eyes like an owl, all seeing. Blurrily in her mind, Wendy recognised someone dangerous and shivered. Then she immediately forgot about that and giggled. Again. The drugs were really getting to her.

They lead her through a door and down some stairs, swirling, twirling stairs that went down and down and down.

There were others on those stairs, going around and around in a circle, all hunting the ones in front of them and never looking for the dangers on their back. They all met Wendy later, kind of, but for now she was led down into a white washed room and shackled into a chair, and lights shone in her eyes, really bright. And then she was left there.

Alone.

Well not quite alone. There was somebody watching. The Watcher was watching. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even though he knew what was going to happen. He couldn't prevent it.

A hand pressed against his shoulder and Tinker Bell bent down and observed Wendy as well, watching as the drugs she was given left her system and she started panicking. Tink's eyes were narrowed as she calculated how long Wendy needed to stay there, when she could be fed, when she was allowed to sleep, mapping out Wendy's life for the foreseeable future. Wendy now had no control over her life, until she was ready, then her control was the Nation's control.

Tink tapped her fingers against a small white button.

"Okay," she said, "We're ready. Beginning in: Three. Two. One."

She pressed the button.

* * *

The lights went out. Wendy had thought that she couldn't be any more terrified than she already was, but there was something about that darkness, how foreboding it was, how it seemed to curl around her, stalk her, ready to pounce.

She shivered. She was cold and was so far underground that it wouldn't matter if it was morning yet. The sun could never make it down here with a machine gun and a bulldozer. Wendy could feel the wind though. It made its way done there in draughty drafts and tickled the back of her neck. She breathed in and then out. It was the only sound Wendy heard. All was silent. She breathed again, this time to stop herself from hyperventilating. It was scary down there, all alone. She wondered if they were going to leave her down there as punishment for….something. What had she done? Why was she here? What were they going to do to her?

Wendy didn't really want to know.

She closed her eyes tightly. There was no use having them open. It was too dark to see. She kept them shut for a few moments (seconds? Minutes? Hours? How could she calculate time when there was nothing to calculate time _by_ ) but as time went on she became increasingly paranoid that there was someone standing in front of her and she snapped her eyes open. She still couldn't see. Wendy kicked her legs in front of her, just to make sure. There was nobody there.

BANG! A sound rang out, assaulting her ears. Wendy went as still as possible, listening for another sound, _any_ other sound. There was nothing. Complete silence. Had she imagined it? It was possible it was a dream-sound, created by her imagination. It was probably a dream-sound. There was no noise in this room, not even her breathing anymore. Was she dead? Was this what death is like, forever sitting in a dark room with only the cold for company. Wendy shivered. She hoped she wasn't dead. She couldn't spend another five minutes like this, let alone eternity.

Wendy hummed, a low sound that sounded tiny as soon as it left her throat and was soon swallowed by the oppressive silence. She was comforted though, in the sound. For a moment.

A low thick feeling overwhelmed her and settled in her stomach. Wendy clutched her throat with the clanking of chains and keened, tears making her cheeks wet and making her face sore and irritated. She coughed and spluttered like a baby, curling up in the chair and hugging her chest. The chains dug awkwardly in her ribs. She cried and then rasped and soon fell asleep, feeling better but not by much. Wendy knew that she had a good chance of never seeing her family again.

 **Well, welcome to Neverland…..**


	4. Chapter 3

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Three

 **I'm straying more and more from Barrie's style. Oh well, let's just roll with it and see what happens. Could be fun! ;) Anyway, Wendy is brainwashed, so:**

 **Warning: Wendy is brainwashed with torture and pins.**

 **Guest: Is that a good** AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! **or a bad** AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! **? Did I do well in torturing your soul?**

 **Robin: Thanks. I hope Wendy survives too! There's a hard road ahead of her though.**

 **Disclaimer: I own this, I totally own it. Come on, whatcha gonna do about it?**

 **(Okay, maybe I don't own it. But seriously, whatcha gonna do about it?)**

 _You never exactly knew whether there would be a real meal, or just make believe, it depended on Peter's whim_ –J.M Barrie

* * *

Wendy woke and it was morning, a morning carefully timed and crafted by Tinker Bell to wake her up out of deep sleep, so that she was dizzy and blurry-headed and not thinking clearly. Wendy sat up, wincing at the pain of the bruises from the shackles and the soreness of sleeping in a chair. Arms pulled her to her feet and unshackled her and she slumped for a moment. Wendy hadn't nearly enough sleep, so it took a while for the thought to drift through her head. _Escape you dummy!_

Wendy shook her head and made a run for it, weaving through the corridors and trying to get lost but not too lost, she wanted to escape after all, and avoid the _hsssth_ sounds behind her and the flashes of light on her heels.

She whipped past Tinker Bell, who raised an eyebrow and stopped the guards from chasing her.

"Let her run for now," Tinker Bell said, "She hasn't anywhere to go."

Now, one of the four training groups lived on the next floor up- these were Peter's lot, see and he picked them out of new arrivals like cherries as they interested him and as soon as he was no longer interested in them they were deemed ready and cast out. Tink had been trained by him and became an instructor herself as he found her too interesting to let go.

The number of Lost Boy's, as Peter called them was forever fluctuating as his interest in them grew and ebbed but at that time there were six of them, counting the Twins as two. Peter was not with them at the moment and they awaited their captain with almost uneasy anticipation, sharpening their daggers and cradling their EPulse's.

They waited in a line at the stair well, with Tootles first, a humble sweet lad, who had managed to hold onto his countenance through it all. Things always seemed to go badly for him, as they were now, courtesy of Tinker Bell.

Next comes Nibs, the oldest of the lot (not counting Peter, as it is hard to tell how old he is) at nearly eighteen, with a sweet slasher smile reminiscent of the Joker, followed by Slightly who is the youngest. Slightly is the most conceited of the boys, coming from a richer home and this has stuck with him, giving his nose an offensive tilt. Curly is fourth; he is the most clumsy and least foresighted of them all, and so often has he had to deliver up his person when someone has done something wrong, he does it automatically when Peter asks the one who has done it to turn himself in, whether he has done it or not. Last comes the Twins, who have to referred to as a whole, otherwise it would be uncertain as to whom we are addressing.

Wendy, having now found the stairs, ran up them with the fury of a phoenix, trying not to think about how far underground she was and how it could all crumble down and crush her….

The Lost Boys could hear the footsteps pounding up the stairs, echoing throughout, hitting them with the force of a sledge hammer. Soon a figure clothed in white rounded the corner. It was Wendy.

"It's a lady." Nibs said nervously. There were no girls in the Lost Boys currently and the only contact they had with them were the instructors. Tink was annoying and Tiger Lily was terrifying, so they didn't count.

They all looked at each other in confusion. What did they do? There was a moment of stillness. And then Tootles raised his EPulse.

Wendy didn't know what was going on. She was tired, sore, and hungry and the last thing she wanted was to run into a group of creepy boys. The blond one raised his weapon and pointed it at her. She turned to run but not before an _hsssth_ sound reached her ears. All she could see was white and then-

* * *

The first thing Angela saw when she opened her eyes was nothing.

No Wendy. No daughter. No laughter.

There was an absence in her life. It was empty.

The second thing she saw was her husband, clutching her hands. His eyes were as empty as her own. His List of Important Things had been cut down to two:

Find Wendy

Look after Angela

Angela felt a comforting pressure on her shoulder. Liza smiled at her. Angela didn't smile back. The quirk in her mouth refused to lift any higher.

"Who was it?" asked Mr Darling, "Who took our Wendy away?"

"Peter Pan," said Mrs. Darling

George Darling was a proud man, but he was, he thought, appropriately humbled. He never would have cried before. He cried now.

"I should have listened to you," he sobbed, "I should have not acted like such a sonofabitch."

He allowed himself a few more moments of weakness before steeling himself and resuming a tall stance. He wiped his tears.

"Liza," he said, "what is the likelihood of Wendy being….." his stiff upper lip trembled, "dead?"

Liza bit her lip as she thought, "Not very much, I mean, he's got to have taken her away to Neverland right? She's a tough girl, she'll survive. She'll come back to us. I mean, none of us have done anything wrong, right?"

Liza turned to Angela, "Right?"

Angela nodded, "We _haven't_ done anything wrong," she said, although this statement was technically untrue.

Liza turned to George, "We just have to be fine upstanding citizens and hope that they'll give Wendy back to us in one piece."

All the adults made sounds of agreement and in that moment they all made pacts in their heads to get Wendy back anyway. Whatever it took.

* * *

When Wendy woke, she heard singing. It startled her so much that she immediately forgot about how much her skin stung and went as still as possible, trying to puzzle out the curious noise.

… _..look at me….._

The voice seemed familiar to her somehow but she couldn't place her finger on it. The tune seemed familiar also.

….. _deep in my eyes….._

Her memory seemed to hover for a moment, uncertain, still stunned by the EPulse.

…. _I can hear….._

In the back of her head came a melody on the piano, her father smiling. Ah, Tumbalalaika. She knew this song. Wendy wasn't sure if there were words to go with the music but she was pretty sure that these weren't the words.

…. _the buzzing of flies…_

They sounded made up, like a boy had thrown together words that rhymed in the hopes of making a song.

… _.walk to the left…._

Ah. Wendy opened her eyes. Peter sat there, singing.

… _..ignore all the deaths…_

He grinned at her, showing all his teeth and crowed. Wendy shivered and leaned as far away as possible.

… _and drown in the black…_

He brought up a box and shook it. It made a jangling sound, like it was filled with a million pins.

… _deep black of my eyes…_

The thing is, with Peter, one can never be quite sure what he is thinking. He had a face that never betrayed the secrets inside, despite the cocky smirk that he often wore. He could be thinking that he was a marvellous boy or he had forgotten what he had been thinking about. It is hard to tell.

Wendy couldn't tell what he was thinking either. She opened her mouth to ask and realised that her mouth had been stuffed with a metal and leather concoction.

Something sharp pricked at her arm.

Then something sharper _jabbed_ at her back. It fucking hurt and Wendy screamed in pain. She turned her head to look as much as she could. It _was_ a pin.

Another pin went in next to it, pressing smoothly into tender skin. Wendy shrieked. Somewhere, she swore she heard someone screaming in reply.

Another one went in. This time it seemed to be longer, although it was not. She bit against the muzzle and swore.

Suddenly Peter was in front of her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Wendy," she tried to reply.

"A friend," John said next to her, somehow.

"You're not," Peter Pan said.

"I'm not?" Wendy said, confused, although it was hidden behind the muzzle.

"You are not Wendy," said Michael, it was definitely Michael, behind her.

"You're just a bad girl," said Peter.

Wendy didn't even notice the pins start to prick again. She was fixated on Peter's words.

"A rule breaker," said John. How was he here? He couldn't be here.

"A trouble maker," said Michael. She had been injected with hallucinogens.

"A nobody," said Peter, his big eyes staring balefully at her, "You're a disgrace to the Nation."

"To your parents."

"Do you even have parents?"

Her skin was as sticky as sap.

Her shirt stuck to her.

None of this made sense.

She tried to state so.

Peter shook his head in mock dismay, clearly enjoying himself.

It was then Wendy saw it. It was just a game and she was his toy. Wendy meant nothing to him, not even to torture. Only now he was interested in her, for some reason.

Peter smiled. That smiled scared her.

Another pin and more blood. Wendy didn't even notice. She was too scared.

* * *

The Watcher watched Tinker Bell watch Wendy. He didn't want to be there. But like most self-conscious people, Tinker Bell required attention, an audience, and he was the only person able to fufil that at that moment.

So he was quiet. He waited.

And he Watched.

Tinker Bell pursed her lips and tapped them thoughtfully.

"We need a way to make it stick," she said. "The hallucinogens will help but once it leaves her system she'll return to her previous thought patterns. We need to strip her of her personality sooner. How can we do that?" she asked the Watcher.

The Watcher shrugged. He didn't know. He wasn't a psychologist. He didn't know what made people tick.

Tink nodded like the Watcher had given her a deep insight, "We'll disconnect her from her attachments," she decided, before moving her watch up to her face and fiddling with it. At least it looked like a watch. The Watcher didn't know what it was called.

"Peter," she said into the watch.

"Hey Tink," Peter said amicably.

"You silly ass," Tink responded, like she always did, "Start showing the videos after day four. Take away the shirt and the muzzle, and dress her in a uniform."

"Already?" Peter asked, surprised. It seemed a little too soon.

"Yes," Tink said, making notes. The pencil scratched its way across the page, Tink adapting her plan to what would best mould Wendy into the perfect little assassin. The Watcher felt fear squeeze his heart, because it was all too soon for the next day to begin. Day two of the brainwashing was soon to begin. He watched Tinker Bell count down the hours, minutes, seconds, and then raise a hand and press a button on her watch. It made a cute little beep sound. It sounded innocuous.

The Watcher watched as Wendy was drugged again, hurt again and played with again. He wondered how much longer she could last. When she would crack, when she would break. He didn't know much about torture or brainwashing or psychology. But he did know what the basics of it entailed. His teacher had described it to him. Break their souls down and then build them up again in the way _you_ want.

The Watcher's teacher was not a very nice person.

The Watcher watched as Wendy was lead to a table and strapped down. Her head was making jerking movements and she seemed to be talking almost incessantly, to Peter, to nothing, pleading, begging and cajoling. She was shaking her head and screaming silently, while Peter slipped a piano line around her middle and pulled it tighter, loop by loop.

The Watcher turned his head away to stop himself from doing something stupid, like cry. He glued his eyes to Wendy's old home, where Mr Darling was playing a melancholy tune. He frowned and turned up the sound.

It was Tumbalalaika.

 **That's all, folks! Tune in next time, where Wendy will be tortured. Again. Feel free to skip that chapter. Also, I deeply apologise for the badly written singing part. All the badly written parts, in fact. Feel free to criticise. Lynch me.**


	5. Chapter 4

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Four

 **Okay, first, let's get something out of the way, two things actually:**

 **I've decided that the degradation of the Way of Barrie is a symbolic, artistic author's decision and that it symbolises the Darlings and the canon's descent into true and utter madness. Deal.**

 **Updates will be slowed down to every fortnight, because believe it or not, I like this little (?) story of mine and I want to do it properly**

 **BubbleEwa: Thank You, But I, uh, kind of abandoned that. Explanation above. And yes, it is horrible, I tried to go all-out with my dystopia.**

 **Guest: Oh god, I've ruined your childhood. Well, that means good writing, right? I shall continue with it (Mwahaha!)**

 **Blue Alaskan Wolf: Finally, someone's childhood I am not ruining. Glad to see someone agrees with me. Heartfelt thanks.**

 **Disclaimer: The rights to this is practically open house but I no own anyway**

 **(Note: There are huge jumps of time between sections. Rome wasn't built in a day and Wendy wasn't brainwashed either.)**

" _You can't fight them Mouse. They're bigger than all of us."_ \- JM Barrie, Peter Pan

* * *

At number 14, nobody was home. It was strangely empty. If Nana had been there, she would have remarked that somebody was up to something. But because nobody was there, she couldn't. In fact, Nana was downstairs, herself up to something.

The thing about the people on different floors in that building, was that they didn't interact much with each other. They saw each other on the stairs, and when some of them looked down they could see people entering and leaving through numerous doors and windows.

And so, Nana reasoned, at least _one_ of them must have seen Wendy. She slipped through the ground floor, an old woman unnoticeable. None of them had seen Wendy. That's what they said anyway. Nana knew differently. These people were scared out of their wits. They wouldn't say anything if they were dancing on hot coals.

The first floor was worse and on the second floor, people actually noticed her when she started asking questions. Her, an old lady!

Finally concluding there was nothing to be done about the suspicious and distrustful people in the building (she herself was just as suspicious and distrustful after all), she went to consult Smee, a mad Irish man.

He was too stupid to get the concept of fear.

Knocking on his door on the fourth floor, Nana consulted her ideas of him. Well, her only idea of him.

She thought he was pathetic.

Nana was not alone in this opinion. Her knitting group, who met on Tuesday's, all nursed this opinion and the Darling's agreed with her, although they would not voice it aloud. Nana could tell what people thought of the industrious and obliging, the pathetic Smee, who was under the illusion that the children (who were put into his care every Tuesday while she was knitting) 'obeyed him under an iron fist of fear'.

Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child in that building that loved him with all their tiny hearts, however shrivelled they might be. The more horrible he acted, the more they loved him. Even Jane was fascinated by the Irish man.

The Irish man opened the door, flinging it open with an excited yelp.

"Hullohullohullo!" he said, "Nana! It's you! Please come in!" He opened the door wider and gestured.

Nana narrowed her eyes at his excited babbling, really, what had this man to be so excited about.

"No, thank you," she said primly, "I was just wondering when you'd last seen Wendy?"

"Ah Wendy," Smee said fondly, "Such a troublemaker that one. I saw her a couple days ago, being led down the street by a pretty young lady and a little boy. It was night but she was still out playing with her friends! She has loyalty, that one!"

"And in which direction where they going?" she enquired.

Smee's hands fumbled for a cigar, "Why, to Living District 47 I believe. Is something wrong?"

"No." Nana turned away from the door, "Nothing's wrong at all. Have a good day, mister Smee."

"You too Nana," Smee said warmly.

 _Well_ , thought Nana, _This is bad._

* * *

Wendy drooped like a wilting flower. The only reason she didn't slump down were the strong arms carrying her to the torture chamber. She had no idea how long it had been since she was first brought down here. Everything outside her head was blurred and unreal while the inside of her head was rebelling against her.

"Where are we going?" Michael asked softly.

Wendy didn't answer. She didn't speak. She never spoke. She didn't see the point in it anymore. She just waited.

And hoped.

Hoped that she was getting out alive, that she could go back to her parents, to Nanny and Liza and John and Garret and Michael, the real ones, not the ones in her head.

Unfortunately for Wendy, hope was going to be stripped away, like skin from the flesh. It would hurt just as much.

She was flung into a white sterile room, stumbling over her feet and landing on the floor with a thud. Wendy didn't even put up her hands to protect herself and lay there limply, letting the cold from the floor soak up through her body.

Somebody kicked at her and pulled her up. She didn't open her eyes. A wad of material was shoved into her hands and she realised blankly that her cuffs were gone.

She opened her eyes. The room was empty. Wendy looked at the cloth. It was a dark jumpsuit, made of a material that sucked in the light around, creating the shadow. They wanted Wendy to put it on. First though….

Wendy took of the muzzle, grateful that the metal was no longer irritating the sores in her mouth. She moved her mouth around and opened it but didn't speak. She didn't want anyone to answer.

"You gonna put that on?" asked John, hands on his hips, nodding towards the jumpsuit. Inspecting it, Wendy saw it was patterned with a slightly lighter black skeleton leaf patterns. She nodded silently and stripped off her blood-stained tattered rag of a shirt and sliding the jumpsuit over her body. It was skin tight and fitted her perfectly.

Wendy stood at the door at waited to be brought back to the torture.

Patiently.

.

The funny thing about old school friends reflected George Darling, was that they became so much more interesting when they grew up.

He was standing in another Living District, something illegal but really meant nothing to the man he was about to meet.

He was standing in another Living District and the row of apartments beckoned. So he strode up to a faded red door and knocked on it. It opened and a short brown-skinned girl opened it.

"Are you here for my father?" she asked, while George found himself gobsmacked. Samuel had a child? Since when and where did that happen? He simply nodded mutely.

The girl shrugged and gestured with a small flick of her fingers for him to follow her. He dutifully trailed after the bouncing girl. She was about Wendy's age and he wondered if they knew each other from school. There was only one school around here, after all.

"Good old George," greeted Samuel Mar, "Decided to come visit us here after all? Got tired of the working life, gonna do a bit on the side? I wonder how dear old Angela would react to that?"

George gave him a Look. Samuel's lips tightened and he sat down at his desk.

"Garret," he ordered the girl, "Leave the room."

The girl rolled her eyes and left. As soon as the door closed on her, George started talking.

"It's Wendy, my little girl, she's gone missing. We think it's most likely that is was…." he leaned in close and whispered "Peter Pan."

A look of horror passed over Samuel's face. He gripped the edge of the table, "Are you sure, absolutely certain?"

George nodded tiredly. He had been visiting all the people he knew with connections. All of them. And they had all answered the same way.

Samuel placed his head in his hands and groaned. "You are sooo fuuucked."

"Please," begged George, "Give me a number, a percentage. How likely is it that Wendy will come back?"

Samuel's face crinkled as he added up the numbers, "Eleven, no nine percent. And this is her coming back _at all_. She will be broken beyond repair."

George nodded grimly and left. He loved certainties. One-hundred percents. But…

 _Nine percent. I can work with that. I have to work with that. I have no other choice._

The girl with the thimble was in Neverland, a place she was being tortured at, where bruises covered her body and Peter Pan loved thinking up brand now ways to torture her.

She was watching people dancing to a familiar tune. Her parents were there. John and Michael were there, also watching it beside her. They had been silent the last couple of days now, beaten as she was. The girl with the thimble knew that the only thing keeping her from going to sleep and never waking for this nightmare again was the thimble pressed against her chest.

She remembered this night. She remembered it perfectly well. But why wasn't she there? It was like she didn't exist…

The thimble girl had cried before, a silent trickling down her cheeks. The thimble girl had screamed before, loud and ragged. The thimble girl had cracked before, let all the voices in, and worse, the silence.

Now, the thimble girl _shattered_. She thrashed and an inhuman howling cut its way out of her, her focus on the wrong, bad footage, empty of her, where she didn't exist. The crying was no longer silent, and she heaved sobs like she was throwing up and curled in the chair she was shackled to. The world receded so fast and so quick as her mind was crumbled and whimpered that she was barely aware of the arms around her.

It was a simple act of kindness, the very first she knew of and she latched onto it, onto the shoulder she dug into, onto the hope that this person would take all this away. When the thimble girl's mind heaved itself back up again she took a look at her comforter.

It was Peter Pan and in that moment she would do anything for him. Even kill.

* * *

Liza and Angela returned home, comrades in arms, aching all over and desolate with yet another dead end. Now that is was the end of the week, and each increasingly suspicious of the others, it had been unanimously, yet silently agreed that they would pool their findings and try to get Wendy back. Liza and Angela had gone to the same place first, and to be honest I'm not surprised.

They all gathered around the piano as Mr Darling played Scherzo, an ironic piece appropriate for the mood. He looked up as they came in.

"Nine percent, we can do it with nine percent, can't we?" he asked, before adding; "The rest say they may be able to rustle something up next Thursday but they doubt it. Nobody touches Neverland, and only whispers are heard of it."

Nana leaned gratefully into a chair, her old bones squeaking, "Nobody would speak, not a word, the cowards that they are, except for Smee, who only saw Peter Pan lead her off to the south."

"Is that it?" asked Liza in horror, "People can't be _that_ scared, can they? Nobody told _us_ anything either, just the usual rumours, all the stuff we already know: kids taken from their beds, taken away to Neverland, most of them never seen again, blah-blah-blah!"

She angrily wiped away tears and stormed away, to put John and Michael to bed. Nana rose too, slowly following to comfort the poor woman. Angela shut the door after them and slid down it while Mr Darling abandoned the piano and went to go sit by her, warming her with her arms, against the cold truth.

Wendy might not be coming back.

* * *

The thimble girl stood at the stairwell, waiting quietly to be collected. She didn't have shackles any more. She didn't need shackles anymore. She was ready to behave. The bruises had faded and she was ready to begin again.

"Miss? I was sent here to collect you."

The thimble girl turned. Behind her, coming down the stairs, was a tall older boy, with brown hair and a wide, crazy smile. She offered him a nod.

His smile stretched even wider, "Brilliant! Follow me."

And then he turned and raced up the stairs, the thimble girl sprinting to keep up with her short legs, and for a few moments they raced side by side before he gained the lead. Her side hurt but she stubbornly ignored that, racing faster and faster, almost running into him as he stopped before a closet door.

He turned to her, as he was opening the door to lead her in, "What do I call you? I'm Nibs by the way."

The thimble girl stared at him and flicked her thimble.

He chuckled and pushed her into the cave-like room, "Well, welcome to Neverland, Thimble.

Thimble didn't smile. She just walked in.

 **Duh-Dun-Duh! Wendy gets a code name! Also Stockholm Syndrome is a powerful mistress! Sorry if it was a bit surreal for you or choppy but Wendy is traumatized and mad, so y'know, it's artistic measure. Just so you know, that quote up there is not from the book, but from the Disney Review Blog of Unshaved Mouse, who is so epic I am actually recommending that you type "Unshaved Mouse" into your search bar and begin a delightful descent into Bahia. Don't read me, read** _ **him**_ **.**


	6. Interlude A

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd:

Interlude

 **Bad news is, no new chapter. I regret to inform you that, I, uh, broke my computer. Don't go anywhere though, because I rustled up something to keep you waiting until next week, when I, pretty promise, will have the next chapter up. Nothing special, just a short one-shot about the meeting between Angela and Liza, and George. Not as good quality as I sorta wrote it all in a night.**

 **Disclaimer: I no own.**

* * *

" _It turned out not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was absurdly gratified," –JM Barrie_

* * *

Angela sat on a park bench, huddled against the cold and breathing into her hands to warm them, watching the clouds of her breath billow in the icy rain. Beside her, Liza was a constant source of heat, warming up her side, entertaining her with a constant dialogue of her day at home and generally distracting Angela from the biting cold and the endless wait. She idly wondered if it would snow. It was certainly cold enough.

"Wonder what's taking old-man Darling so long?" asked Liza, putting her hands behind her head and leaning back, making an exaggerated face like she did so often and well.

Angela would have made a face as well, except her body seemed frozen to the spot with cold. She made a stiff nod of agreement. She didn't want to wait out there for much longer. It was going to get much, _much_ colder. She didn't want to be another one of those corpses, so pale, so icy, who died in the night, huddled up against a wall or crouched underneath a doorway.

She heard a slight cough and looked up to see old-man Darling standing there, dressed in several layers of raggedy, holey clothes, and hunched over his walking cane. Angela suddenly felt warm enough to beam at him.

"Old-man Darling!" cheered Liza, throwing her hands up, "You finally came! Now you can finish your story!"

Old-man Darling smiled at her antics, "Indeed, Liza, but first I would like you girls to meet someone."

He stepped to the side to reveal a dark-haired boy carefully examining the pavement.

"This is George," old-man Darling introduced, dragging the boy forwards, "He goes to your school and he's very clever, but he's a bit shy. I brought him here so he could make friends with you girls. Could you both do this for an old man?"

"Grandpa!" complained the boy, wrenching his arm out of old-man Darling's grip and rubbing it.

"Of course," said Angela, giving a nod of assent.

"Yeah!" added Liza, bouncing out of her seat and putting an arm around George's shoulders, "Don't worry old-man Darling, we'll look after him!" she assured, pulling George to the bench and forcing him to sit down.

"Now that _that_ is settled," old-man Darling said amicably, "Who wants me to continue the story?"

Three heads nodded eagerly.

"So, there I was," began old-man Darling, starting from where he left off, "Staring into the cool eyes of whom I was dead certain to be my killer. They would never find my body!" he shook his head ruefully at his younger self, "but instead of shooting me with her nice little pistol, she offered to buy me a drink! Can you believe?"

They all shook their heads and leaned in closer. They wanted to hear more. Old-man Darling stared off into space dreamily for a moment.

The moment went on too long and Angela found herself shaking his arm.

"Old-man Darling?" she asked, "Are you alright?"

Old-man Darling's grip on the cane loosened and he fell to his knees and grasped at air, digging his fingers into the newly fallen snow in pain. He dropped to his side and Angela rushed forward with George and Liza, kneeling in the stained snow, hands dripping.

"And then…" old-man Darling said, struggling to finish his story, "we fell….. in love….. your grandma and… I…."

"Grandpa," George said, his voice shaking, reaching over and grabbing his freezing dead hand and holding it to his chest, tears darkening his cheeks, "Grandpa.."

Liza burrowed her face into Angela's neck and cried, her arms squeezing the copper-tasting air out of her, the hot teas burning her skin. Angela patted her back stiffly, her bones wrought with ice while Liza screamed her frustration.

Angela just stood there, watching one of her favourite people turn into another of those pale, icy corpses who died in the night, the blood soaked up by the snow scouring the wet warmth on her cheeks.

 **Uhhh….. Surprise? It's goddamned depressing, I'll say that but this is a dystopia. It's kinda the idea. Sorry.**


	7. Chapter 5

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Five 

**Well, I'm done, at least. It's the thought that counts, right? The story is jerky but uh… Captain Hook is in this? Personality partially intact? Meh.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

* * *

' _No watch was kept on the ship, it being Hook's boast that the wind of his name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate would guard it also. One more wail would go the round in that wind by night.'_ – JM Barrie.

* * *

The four training groups in Neverland were as such: The Lost Boys, Peter Pan's toys, The Fair Folk, Tinker Bell's group, who had non-physical Abilities or somehow gotten out of their punishment, by money or skills. There were the Natives, heralded by Tiger Lily and they had been born into the business, children of Natives or Lost Boys or Fair Folk or the Animals, those with physical Abilities. The Animal's instructor was Lean Wolf, a Native with fangs and sharp ears.

The Head Instructor was Hook, named so after the iron hook he had instead of a right hand, with which he was terrifying, clawing rents in the air with it in battle. There were rumours about how he lost it. Some said of how he lost it in a match with Peter, the terrifying boy-demon, others about how it was sawn off by a rebel group. These wisps of rumours were quiet and subdued. Hook was a terrifying captain and nobody wanted to get on his bad side. He reposed even now, in a lavish boudoir in an ancient style almost long forgotten. He appeared the picture of malicious tranquillity, daydreaming of bodies and torture and the old-school ways of doing things. But his heart, shrivelled as it may be, raged against his chest and in his head a war was raged. The rest of his body was still yet his hook played with the edges of the pleated shirt.

Hook was stuck in a dilemma. The two things that governed his life had crashed in a spectacular way and he didn't know what to choose. Was it good form to "dob", as his friends had called it, a comrade in, especially for acting in good form themselves? No, no it was not.

But was it patriotic to turn the other way and say nothing? He certainly wasn't doing the Nation a favour that was for sure. But which was better? Patriotism or Good Form?

Hook stood and began to pace his room. He couldn't tell.

His, room, despite being lavish, was not well kept. There was a layer of dust over everything, nothing had been washed and only a single bulb lit the room, barely laying a finger on his pale face, let alone the festering corners of the room. There were black marks across the floor that he was leaving as he paced. He lit a cigar and drew on it as if by doing so he would gain an answer. The smoke wafted around his head and no answer came.

He imagined that there was a spirit on either shoulder, like the old cartoons that were shown on television when he was young. Patriotism perched on the left shoulder, the mainstay of his childhood as the old country burned down around his ears and the Nation rose from the ashes. The Nation fed him, clothed him, housed him and all he had to do in return was make sure some brats knew how to punch in a straight line.

" _For your country,"_ whispered Patriotism, " _For the good of your country."_

Good Form curled around his right arm, resting its head on his shoulder. Good Form was before the Nation, before his parents died, before all this training lark. Good Form is what his parents taught him since he was but a boy.

" _Don't fight dirty with your friends and don't cheat on your comrades,"_ his parents instructed him.

Why? Why not? Wasn't is a good way to win?

And his parents replied:

" _It isn't good form."_

Hook clenched the cigar between his lips and strode out from the room. He would keep his mouth shut, as was good form. He resolved to forget about it, he had things to do.

Like the new trainee's welcome party.

* * *

The thimble girl was sleeping on a bed. It was hard and lumpy and she was squished in either side by smelly, sweaty boys and it was heaven to finally sleep on a bed again.

 _Thweee-snnit_ went the door and all the lights flickered on. All at once, the Lost Boys jumped up and the thimble girl found herself pressed into a line. She stood up straight and her vision was fixed at the point in front of her. Her head didn't move, not even when a sounding of boots echoed across and a devilish man with long back greasy ringlets stood in front of her and sneered;

"Ah, a lady," he bowed deep and gestured with his hand, "Well, a welcoming wouldn't go amiss. Follow me, young lady."

He offered his hand and, with no other choice, she clung onto it and was swept out of the room, the Lost Boys trailing behind, their faces not betraying what was going to happen next. They reached a large, well lit room with a circle drawn in black marker on the white-washed floor. Tinker Bell stood in the middle of the circle, looking huffily down on the Lost Boys.

"Your welcome party," Hook announced, gesturing grandly at the room, "Your training begins. All you have to do, Thimble, is move Miss Bell here, out of the circle, however you can. You will not leave this room until this is done. If you take longer than a week, then so be it. If you take longer than a year, so be it. Your lovely teammates here are not allowed to interfere, however, they can stand there and laugh at you if they wish."

Thimble stood there, looking between Hook and Tinker Bell. She moved to just outside the circle and looked at Hook for affirmation. He nodded and she lunged at Tinker Bell's throat, clawing at it.

 _Thwock._ Thimble doubled over, wheezing. She dodged a high kick but an elbow then slammed into her face and she tumbled out of the circle and lay gasping on the ground. She rolled over to her stomach and got to her knees, looking at Tinker Bell from beneath her ragged, dirty hair. Thimble wondered, briefly, for a moment if it were worth it to rush her again, before shaking the thought off, standing up, and rushing Tinker Bell again.

Tinker Bell watched her come, then stepped to the side, flipping Thimble over her shoulder. Thimble stumbled to her feet and lashed out with her elbow, determined, only to find herself tumbling back over the line in a heap, jarring her head. She struck again and again, aiming high, hitting low, throwing everything she had into it and each time she was thrown back with force out of the circle. The Lost Boys murmured and shifted but otherwise were silent and still. Thimble paced the edges of the small room, her eyes scouring its surface to find a tool to give her an advantage, using her feet to scout the dark corners of the room when she didn't want to give away her movements. Her feet skittered over a rough, twined material. Her eyes flicked down and she smiled.

* * *

Michael retreated under his covers with the sheets constricted around him and the pillow over his head. If Wendy were here, she'd tell him a story or play a game with him, to block out the sound of thundering horses and flashing swords that he was _certain_ was just outside his bedroom, waiting until he fell asleep to snap him up and carry him away, forever.

But Wendy wasn't here. She was missing. She was in danger. He could tell, in the way the Grown-Ups avoided his eyes and the way they wouldn't talk about her, like they were pretending nothing was wrong. Michael knew better. If Wendy was able to get back to him, she would, he was sure of it. If she couldn't get back to him, Bad Things were happening to her.

The horses made another round outside his bedroom and he could hear their yells and their swords flash and he whimpered. The Grown-Ups were so worried about Wendy, they didn't even notice things anymore, like how Nana didn't notice Albert's fur was dirty, or how the piano music didn't echo into his room from next door any more. It was as silent as a grave and the Darlings were all mourners.

The knights roared their fury and clanged their swords against their armour. Michael couldn't stand it anymore, jumping out of his bed and breathlessly running to the window, not looking behind him lest a headless knight stood there, sword poised to swipe. He peered out, reassuring himself that the street outside wasn't swarmed with an army.

The outside was empty, as empty as Wendy's bed and was silent as Mr Darling's piano. But, but…..

… _.sing this song….._

He could hear strains on the breeze, a voice carried through the rain and the lightning.

… _.so you will not cry…._

He shivered but leant out the window, instantly drenching his hair, in the hopes that the noise would drive away the loneliness.

… _.to take my hand…_

It was eerie, the song, twisting through the air, leaping about from raindrop to raindrop like a shadow.

… _..and choose to survive…._

But something in it made him draw back from the window, flicking little beads of water onto the floor. Something in it reminded him of the day that his pa was taken away, the blood, the screaming, and the crying.

 _...do not turn back…._

He slammed the window shut and scrambled back to his bed desperately, the bed engulfing him. The darkness was so thick that one could cut it with a knife.

… _.or look behind…._

The song pierced the sheets and the blankets and he whimpered, clutching his ears. The song was wrong. The song was bad. He wanted the song to _go away._

… _.just stay in my arms…._

It slithered in there and curled around him and he screamed and cried. If only Wendy was there.

… _dear child of mine…._

If only Wendy was there.

* * *

Thimble sneezed and felt her bruises jerk painfully into her ribs at the movement. She crossed her arms and felt the material dig into her skin, pressing down on her flesh. Thimble shuffled forward slowly, her head down, moving with a slight limp on her left. Tinker Bell smiled prettily, the effect thrown off by the blood streaked hair falling messily down her face.

"Coming back for more punishment?" grinned Tinker Bell, then twitched her fingers in a gesture, "Well come on then!"

Thimble paused at the edge of the circle, considering, then lunged forward, without uncrossing her arms. Tinker Bell rolled her eyes and elbowed her in the stomach, before raising her fist back to eye level so she could deal out some more.

 _Snap_. Tinker Bell blinked and looked at Thimble again. This time she held a length of rope between her hands. _You idiot!_ She berated herself, _you left an opening! Pay attention!_

Thimble's hands shot out and she snapped them past each other, catching Tinker Bell's wrists in the loop. She twisted and took a step forward, straightening up a little, forcing Tinker Bell to stumble foreword. Using her momentum and as much force she could muster, she thrust her hands and body forward and Tinker Bell was thrust forward as well, following the movement of Thimble's body.

Suddenly she was on the ground, staring up at the white washed roof as Thimble raised an arm in silent victory. A burst of anger threatened to choke her and she narrowed her eyes at the small, very sneaky girl. Good thing that her training was only just beginning. Now she could see how much more _painful_ she could make the girls' stay there.

 **I-I'm not** _ **quite**_ **sure what happened. Many apologies for the quality of the writing because by** _ **God**_ **it is** _ **awful**_ **. Maybe, one day, I'll get around to fixing it. Someday. Probably. The song is the continuation of the** _ **other**_ **song, which is, also, awful. I'm sorry I spent so long, but that fight scene was horrific. The last move alone took me half an hour, just to work out if it were** _ **feasible.**_ **It is feasible, in case you are wondering, but would work better with an arm hold….**

 **I take this far too seriously.**


	8. Chapter 6

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Six

 **So, so sorry I'm late with this a little, but first I got a cold, and then I got a headache, and then I got an infection… so it wasn't nice, that's what I'm saying. Anyway, in this chapter we get interaction, a James because you can't go wrong with** _ **two**_ **Captain Hooks and Tootles-who-rambles. Read on and weep at this un-proofread chapter. I think I actually made up a couple words at two in the morning.**

* * *

' _Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows; little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them,'_ JM Barrie

* * *

Tiger Lily surveyed the students in front of her, feeling a strange mix of pride and contempt rise in her chest. Neverland _was_ the best training grounds in the Nation, after all, maybe even the world. It would stand to reason that only the best would chosen, the best would be trained and the best would work. Tiger Lily could see in their postures, perfectly straight, head still, loose muscles. Their eyes were alert and searching the room for any hidden threats, while keeping an eye on her. They were perfect little soldiers of the Nation's army.

Unfortunately, that was the problem. Assassins were quick, adaptable and deadly. They were sneaky, undetectable and largely independent, although required to work in tandem with a team. A good soldier did not an assassin make. These kids had to think for themselves, not _too_ much, but they had to be able to think on their feet.

Tiger Lily sighed, adjusting the watch on her wrist. She wished that Peter hadn't asked this of her, after all, _he_ was meant to be training them. But when it came to Peter she couldn't say no, so this is what she got for it. At least she could just make something up to keep them on their toes, and she considered this for a moment, turning it over in her head before coming to a decision.

She gestured with one hand, "Follow me."

Tiger Lily stalked from the room with a trail of soldiers behind her. She planned to fix that.

* * *

Angela carefully sprayed the keys with the cobbled together bottle, careful not to let any leak. She took the cloth and ran it over the piano until it looked shiny against the dents and scratches. She poked the cloth between the sharps and the flats, with the precision of a surgeon. Angela didn't want to accidently press on a key. The noise would echo in the empty space, far, _far_ too loud. Music had no place in that household anymore.

She gathered up the old books with barely a cover anymore, faded sheets of songs and lined paper with words and notes scribbled on. Angela resisted the urge to dump them all in the fireplace and burn them. She carefully placed them under the lid of the seat, careful not to undo the hinges. The lid was prone to sliding off at inopportune moments. She blew at the canvas material nailed to the seat, raising puffs of dust that rose like smoke. When Angela was younger she used to think that dust particles were dead stars, doomed forever to float and collect under the bed.

Angela realised with a start she hadn't seen the stars in a long time. Years. It must have been when they were first moved to the living district. Maybe they really _were_ dead, the stars, reduced to floating dust in space. She wouldn't know.

She lay on her back and slid underneath the seat and underneath the piano. It was an awkward position, a trifle uncomfortable and not very dignified but it was the only way to reach the tricky corners with the cloth. She blinked the fallen dust and tears out of her eyes and carefully wiped the underside of the piano, manoeuvring around the stubs and niches and rubbing the con-

THOC! THOC! THOC! went the door and Angela sat up, only to thwack her forehead on the base of the piano and rebound off it onto the floor. She lay there in stunned silence for a moment, before carefully extracting herself and walking to the door to answer, as dignified as she could.

"It'll be one hundred and seventeen pounds," said the man at the door. He had sparkling blue eyes and the blackest hair.

Mrs. Darling blinked at him in bewilderment, "For opening the door?"

The man looked at her and did a double take, "Oh, missus Darling, didn't expect to see you there. Tell your old George that James from the office says it will be one hundred and seventeen pounds, will ya love?"

"Of course," promised Mrs. Darling, giving the man a strained smile. She hadn't the nerve or the patience to deal with the outside world today, "If you don't mind, I've got to go mind the…." she gestured uselessly over her shoulder.

The man nodded understandingly, "Righto missus Darling, I won't hold you any longer. Have a good day."

He tipped his hat and left.

Mrs. Darling found herself staring after him as he left, at a loss to what the exchange was entirely about.

* * *

Tootles stared at the considering Thimble and bit his thumb. He was unsure of what to do. Should he say something? Offer an insight? Apologise? She hadn't said a word since they got out here, hadn't said a word in all the short time he had known her and he doubted she would start now. And why would she talk to him anyway? Wasn't it his fault? Didn't he shoot her with his EPulse?

Thimble took a couple steps back and nodded to herself. Was she thinking about the challenge Tiger Lily set for them? Tiger Lily was a scary woman, so Tootles couldn't blame her for worrying about the challenge. Tiger Lily was probably waiting above, ready to shove them off the building the moment the Lost Boys stuck their heads in through the window.

Then again, maybe she wasn't thinking about Tiger Lily, like the way his train of thought was going. To be honest, Tootles train of thoughts were more of a train wreck, barrelling through one topic to the next frantically without rest. But he was good at conversations, relatively well. Maybe he should try to strike up a conversation with someone. Thimble was as good as any, and if she didn't reply, well, that just gave him practise. Yes, that was it, he would practise his conversations with Thimble.

Tootles turned to Thimble to begin his conversation, only to find she was waiting exasperatedly at their starting point. He had been so wound up in his train of thoughts he had lost her, just as one loses their place in an address a teacher is giving when they start to gaze out the window to dream of the holidays.

He watched as Thimble traced out a path to the window with her finger, mouth half hanging open so he could begin to have his conversation at any given moment. As soon as she finished, Tootles rushed ahead with it, impatient.

"I'll give you a boost," Tootles offered, then reflected upon his comment. It was short and to the point. It was a good start to this conversation he was having. Now, if only she would deign to answer him, he could have a _real_ conversation.

Thimble gave him a nod and he gave it a mental shrug. Well, he _tried_. And really, who could blame her for not talking. Maybe they had cut out her tongue. Maybe she didn't feel like it. Who knew, right? Tootles knelt down and laced his fingers together so she could place her feet on them. By god, she was _tiny._ He could probably hold her by both ankles with one hand. The fingers would overlap.

"Ready?" he said, lowering himself in anticipation, "One. Two. THREE!"

With a whoop he threw her up as fast as he could. He wondered if she ate much. She was really light. Maybe she had hollow bones. Maybe she was so short, to thin, so light because it was part of her Ability. He didn't know if people got Abilities like that. Maybe they did though, because how would he know? He wouldn't.

Tootles backed up a bit then ran, throwing himself at the wall in the hopes of making far up enough to get a grip. He scrabbled at the concrete a bit before gaining a purchase and hung on desperately. Above him Thimble moved slowly and carefully and if he hurried he could probably catch up. He could catch up and have his conversation.

As he drew level with her he drew in a breath, almost choking on the foggy, smoggy, city atmosphere. From here he could see the street and the barbed wire that surrounded this place. He could probably walk out and go home, but for some reason, he didn't feel like it.

"Hey," Tootles said to Thimble, "I think I can see my house from here."

Thimble gave a squeak as the slight outjut of concrete crumbled away from her as she lost her concentration. The more Thimble panicked the more it crumbled away from her until finally in desperation she threw herself upward and grabbed hold of a steel bar above her.

Wendy breathed heavily as she clutched the steel bar to her stomach. Her head swam. _I almost died_ , she thought, _I almost died_.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, peering at the faraway ground far away from her feet, "Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck."

"It is very far away," observed Tootles from beside her, how very astute of him, "We can slow down if you want."

Thimble gave a nod and raised her hand to grab at the next steel bar. This one was barely a nub. She gritted her teeth and gripped it. Tootles hovered beside her, and, sensing a never-before-seen opportunity for conversation, decided to make some.

"So…" he said, pausing on what to actually say, before deciding on something easy, "What's your favourite colour?"

Thimble glared at him and he raised the hand not holding on for dear life in protest.

"What? It's only a question."

Thimble continued to glare at him.

"It could make you feel better," Tootles added.

"Green," Wendy said, "It's green, because of trees and music and those pretty dresses richer people wear. I like green."

Tootles stared at her open mouthed. It was a miracle, really, she was speaking. Not to anybody else, not to Nibs, the charming bastard, or Tiger Lily or Peter Pan. Thimble was speaking to _him_ , Tootles, the blonde kid with not much going for him. And then she was staring at him, so she probably wanted a reply. Conversations were two-way, so he needed to reply.

"Uh, I like green too," he agreed amicably, "So, is Tiger Lily scary or what? She gives me the creeps."

Thimble sent him a look and he thought that maybe he had gone too far. Was it bad manners to talk about their instructors that way? Did she think less of him for it? Maybe Thimble thought Tiger Lily was cool. She _was_ kinda cool, for how scary she was, and maybe Thimble looked up to her as a mother figure or something. Did Thimble even have a mother? Maybe she had no mother, was willing to latch onto any she could find. Poor girl. He should ask. Tootles resolved to ask her, within the next five minutes, or never.

Thimble's legs shook as she balanced on a window, trembling almost so hard she couldn't get a grip, so hard that all thoughts of her instructor were far from her mind. Wendy shook her head to recollect Tiger Lily.

"That she is," agreed Wendy after consideration, "But Tinker Bell scares me more. I think she has it out for me…."

"Really?" asked Tootles, surprised, it must have been a girl thing, because Tinker Bell was mostly irritating and sometimes gave them training sessions that left them with broken bones and sheared skin out of spite, so she wasn't _too_ dangerous, all things considered. Thimble must have really ticked her off somehow.

"But," interrupted Thimble, "Peter Pan is the creepiest. He just sort of hangs around and never says anything, but when he does, it either makes no sense, or it's even creepier. He asked me the other day what my name was. He said he had forgotten. How could he forget? It's two syllables long!"

She was rambling, Tootles noted to himself, sort of like how he did inside his head, except she did it outside her head, and somehow avoided sounding like a crazy person, like he always did. If Tootles talked outside his head, which he didn't.

His hand hit the window sill that Tiger Lily was waiting at, her brows drawn into a thin line. He gripped it, hoping she wouldn't pitch him over the edge. His five minutes were up.

Tootles took a deep breath. It was now or never.

"Thimble," he said, scrambling up the last few feet to the window above "Do you have a mother?"

Thimble shook her head in silence. Wendy said; "Yes."

Tootles gave a grim smile and outstretched his hand, "Good."

In that moment when she outstretched her hand, Wendy realised something. She _did_ have a mother, a father too, friends, family, a _home_. She could go back to all of that with a quick walk.

Wendy looked at imprisonment above, an open hand, a stern countenance. Wendy looked at the unforgiving ground below, freedom if she was fast enough, clever enough to climb down. She looked at the sill she was gripping with white knuckles. She looked at the foothold beneath her she could grab.

Wendy looked at Tootles. He was concerned. He was going to help her. He was sweet and he didn't belong in Neverland. None of them did.

Wendy let go of the sill with both hands.

 **Ahh, Tootles, how easy you make it to fill up my word count with your rambling. Readers, take note of the use of the Lost Boy's codename shtick for Wendy, Thimble, and her actual name. I'm not just doing it to be pedantic, I promise. Also, I referred to Nana as Nanna a couple chapters back, I think. I apologise for the insight. Somebody has to catch me on this stuff, but really, I should get a beta or something….**


	9. Chapter 7

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Seven 

**So sorry for the hiatus, but I had exams, and then I had to take my driving test, and** _ **then**_ **a branch fell on me. And now I'm on holiday, so expect almost no updates. Sorry. I am also changing my name from Valkyrie Kane to Valiant Toaster, so be warned.**

 **Disclaimer: Peter Pan is no property of mine.**

 **Guest: YES.**

 **Later Guest(?): Sorry…. Haha?**

* * *

' _Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,  
A-pirating we go,  
And if we're parted by a shot,  
We're sure to meet below!'_

–J.M Barrie, Peter Pan

* * *

The window tipped away from her and Wendy saw Tootles' and Tiger Lily's faces fall away and she laughed a short bark. _I sound insane_ , she thought, grinning wildly.

Suddenly there was a vice-like grip around her wrists and with an arm wrenching jerk she stopped and the joy was slammed out by the inferno of fear and Wendy found herself shaking, trembling on a thankfully solid floor, Tootles on one side, holding her up and Tiger Lily on the other twisting her arm up behind her back.

"Walk," ordered Tiger Lily, shoving her arm forward, almost dislocating it. Wendy walked.

Their footsteps seemed to echo in the silent corridor. Wendy doubted to whether it was always this silent. They were probably trying to psyche her out and so she lifted her head high and bit her tongue to stop her teeth from chattering.

They came upon a door, and Tiger Lily knocked furiously upon it, banging her fist against the wooden panelling. Wendy shifted uncomfortably, as with every knock a jolt of pain ran up her arm.

Tinker Bell flung it open, sending the door flying into the wall with a crash. She was seething with anger, which she immediately directed upon her visitors.

"Yes?!" she snapped, "What is it?"

Tiger Lily pushed Wendy forward, "You must be losing your touch," she commented, "She broke it already and it hasn't even been a month."

Tinker Bell leant back to consider Wendy and Wendy stared back, not quite backing down but not stupid enough to complain about the conversation going on over her head.

"Hmmm…." reflected Tinker Bell, "It's probably a facet of her Ability. I predicted a forty-three percent chance this would happen, remember?"

Tiger Lily nodded, but she didn't really remember. She was eager to put Wendy back in her place and fast. She didn't have time to deal with Tinker Bell's technical issues. She sent a brief glare towards Tinker Bell before turning on her heal and leaving her with Wendy. This was Tinker Bell's problem and Tinker Bell could fix it.

Tinker Bell rolled her eyes at Tiger Lily's back but otherwise did not complain. Wendy was pulled into an adjacent room and seated at a desk. It was strangely reminiscent of sitting in front of the Headmistress being scolded, a feeling Wendy was familiar with. She shifted around on the uncomfortable chair, tense as a coiled spring and scared out of her mind. Tinker Bell was sitting at the other side of the desk, which was mahogany, not that Wendy could appreciate it, and rummaging through several piles of papers, defunct Scanners and several Giga-Rings.

Tiger Lily brought out a printed photograph, evidently a screenshot of a video camera and held it up in front of Wendy's face.

"Do you know who this is?" she asked, propping her chin up with her hand.

Wendy took a look at the photo and felt a cold hand clench around her heart as she recognised the person it depicted.

"It's my mother," she said, inwardly panicking. She hadn't considered that she had been watched, that they knew everything about their family, her friends, _everything_ although now that she thought about it, it seemed simple. Every night when she went to sleep, she was Scanned, every time she left the house, cameras and guards followed her movements. There was probably nothing the Nation didn't know about her.

Wendy's fingers bit into her palms as she considered how very stupid she had been to try to run away. If she ran, they would find her. If Wendy fought back, they would kill her. If she disobeyed them, well, they knew where her family lived.

Tinker Bell smiled grimly at the girl. She could spot the slight twitching in the face that proposed that Wendy was scared out of her wits, although refusing to show it. That was good. Fearful people were more malleable to suggestion, and, by extension, blackmail.

"Please don't hurt my mother," Wendy blurt out, "She hasn't done anything wrong."

Tinker Bell's eyes widened and she cursed herself for allowing the girl to speak. Wendy had a tendency to blurt out random things and ramble on incessantly, especially under pressure. Tink should have foreseen this, especially after reading the girl's file. No choice now but to continue on.

"On the contrary," Tinker Bell replied, flicking and fiddling with a Giga-Ring to throw a holographic image up onto the air.

It was another picture of her mother and Liza. Both of them appeared to be a couple years older than Wendy, still wearing school dresses. Liza's hair was in two plaits that trailed down her back. They were clutching each other tightly and kissing passionately.

Wendy opened her mouth, but no sound came out at all. She couldn't find the words to say anything. She didn't _know_ what to say. Wendy didn't know what to feel.

Tinker Bell giggled under her slender fingers, finding it gratifying she could still take small pleasures in revenge.

"Homosexuality is punishable by death by stoning. In public."

Wendy looked up and angrily wiped her tears away with her hand. The palms, bleeding from her sharp nails, left smears of blood on her cheeks. Wendy knew what Tinker Bell was getting at and the injustice, the unfairness of it, made her want to take Tink's very pale and slender hand in hers and crush it like a bug, screaming like a banshee all the while.

"Fine!" Wendy snapped, "I'll stay! I'll stay forever!"

"Prove it," snapped Tinker Bell back, not quite done yet, "There is a man waiting in room 429. Kill him and you can stay."

Wendy was taken aback, "You want me to kil- I'm sorry?"

"Kill him," supplied Tinker Bell, rising from her desk and collecting a large amount of files, gathering them in her arms like flowers.

"No!" protested Wendy, "How could I… how could I….?"

Wendy stopped and looked back at the flickering hologram of her mother. _You need to step back and revise the situation_ , she told herself, _Everyone is in danger and if I have to kill people to keep my family safe, that's what I'm going to do._

Wendy steeled herself.

"What do I have to do?"

* * *

An innocent sandwich sat upon young Garret Mar's lap and she frowned down at it. She didn't feel hungry but if she didn't eat she would feel awful later on that night. Besides, her dad always insisted on making them for her and he would be disappointed if it came home uneaten. He worked so hard to feed her.

Garret grimaced and took a bite out of it. The sandwich had no taste to it and she fought the urge to spit is out and chuck it away, preferably towards Jane. What a boring girl. Nothing like Wendy at all.

Wendy had been missing for days, weeks even.

First she didn't come to school and Garret had figured Wendy was sick or something. Then she still hadn't shown up and Nana had walked by, picking up Wendy's honorary brothers. Wendy loved those boys, to the point that she wouldn't shut up about them, so it was worrying that Wendy hadn't joined Nana.

Then Wendy's father showed up at Garret's door and Garret had hidden behind the door to listen in to the conversation. Wendy was missing. Wendy was gone and Wendy was never coming back. Ever.

Garret choked on her sandwich and tears bit at her eyes. It was as if she spilt acid on them, eating through her eyelids.

In front of her, someone coughed.

Garret jumped and dropped her sandwich and she took a moment to stare at it mournfully. She glanced up at Jane Dutch and then returned her gaze to the ground, preparing to totally and utterly ignore whichever prideful words came out of her mouth. Besides, her loss of the sandwich was more important.

"Garret," said Jane, "I would be worried for your safety if I were you."

Garret focused solely on the sandwich, wishing with all her heart that Jane would leave and take her self-importance elsewhere.

Jane came in closer, kneeling next to Garret, "People have been whispering in the corridors. "Who's next?" they wonder. They don't even look at each other, too scared the Scanners will see the image in their minds and Peter Pan will come after them. Michael and John don't go anywhere anymore without Nana hovering over them and strange people are visiting at all hours. Even good old Smee seems to be staying inside more often, although he still leaves for work every day, which is a miracle in itself."

Jane stood and moved to walk away but not before Garret spoke:

"Why are you telling me this?"

Jane pauses.

"I'm telling you to be careful. If anyone were to be taken next, it would be you."

Jane walked away, with the aura of one who has Fulfilled a Great Task, leaving a gaping Garret and the sandwich in the mud.

* * *

Wendy was holding an EPulse, set up all the way to high. She had been given instructions on how to use it. Press the button, wait for it to charge, pull the trigger. Simple enough.

Except it wasn't. It wasn't like that at all. There was a man in front of her. Wendy didn't know his name or how old he was or anything about him. She didn't want to shoot him but she had to.

She needed to.

Wendy held it with both hands and pointed it at the man, aiming at his heart. He looked at her. He was scruffy looking, with a scraggly beard and bright brown eyes. He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow.

"Stand up," she said. He stood. He wasn't tied down. He wasn't gagged. There was nothing keeping him there, except Wendy had told him to stay and he had done it. She had told him to be silent and he hadn't said a word. She had told him not to look at the EPulse and he hadn't laid his eyes on it. Instead he was looking at her face.

Wendy was crying, and this was how she knew how dirty she was, because her tears were making little muddy trails down her face and then drying in little crusty dust spots on her cheeks and chin.

Wendy made to pull the trigger but her hand seized and her finger felt big and fat and immoveable. She didn't want to do it. She couldn't do it. She walked to the man and closed his fingers around the EPulse.

"I don't want to do it," whispered Wendy, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I- I don't want to ask you but… you have to… shoot yourself…. I'm so sorry."

Wendy ran forward and threw her harms around the man, burying her face in the front of his jacket, "I'm so sorry…" she whispered, "but my mother…. my mother…. I can't…. I am so s-sorry. I-I-I-I d-don't want t-to…"

Wendy was hiccuping, bawling like a baby, "I don't want to do this! Don't m-make- I d-don't want to! _I can't!_ "

Wendy was screaming now, her nose running, her body shaking. The man's jacket smelt like wood smoke.

" _I can't! I won't!_ " she screamed, " _Don't make me! Don't make me!_ "

There was a soft _hsssth_ and the man slumped. Wendy buckled under the weight.

Wendy had told him to kill himself. He had put the EPulse against his head and fired.

 **Oh god, am I depressing… ahh well.**


	10. Chapter 8

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Eight

 **So. I'm back. I've written a bit ahead, which is good, so next time you won't have to wait too much. And even better, the end is in sight! Only a couple more chapters and we will be saying goodbye to Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd, and I'll have to start thinking what I'll do next.**

 **Disclaimer: In fifty years, this will be legitimate or something. Yeah, I dunno, I got nothing.**

* * *

' _He might have forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about it; and then when you went out you found the body.'_ –J.M Barrie, Peter Pan

* * *

The Watcher deliberated. He had seen the footage. With a bit more practise and some experience, Wendy would be ready. Neverland would send her out into the world, to kill or be killed, a minion of the Nation, the very moment Peter grew bored of her. He had seen many children leave Neverland. Not many came back, and Wendy was small and weedy, not strong of body or mind. She would be gone in a couple of weeks, dead in an alley somewhere, tortured to death in the Clock's torture chambers. The Watcher could ignore the twinge in his chest, because once they left the sight of his screens he could pretend that they didn't exist anymore. But he was fond of Wendy. She had grown on him, like mould.

He watched his screens. Everybody in the building was moping or scared and skittish. Quite sensible really. Sometimes Peter liked to collect them in lots.

Yes, he was fond of Wendy and there was a lot of things he could do. He could delay her leaving, for example, or give her an opening in which to escape. He had done those things before, and children had returned home, heartless perhaps, but alive. But those escapes had not gone unnoticed and every hour of every day the eyes of Neverland weighed down on the back of his neck like a tonne of ice.

They were always watching, and one slip up, one mistake, one wayward glance and he would be gone and a new Watcher would be sitting in his chair, watching hawkeyed over the residents of the Living District, and watching with children flow through Neverland. The new Watcher would not be so soft hearted. For the new Watcher, their faces would all blend together until he wouldn't even notice the difference between them.

"What do you think?" asked Peter, swinging backwards and forwards on his chair, round and round in circles.

The Watcher thought that the entire endeavour was useless. He didn't say that though, not to Peter. Peter was worse than the ones who didn't care, because to him it was all a game. His entire team could die and he would think it was great fun and pretend to mourn, before forgetting about it and gathering a new team.

"You'll be clear on Thursday," he replied. His eyes never left his screens. He was afraid that if he looked at Peter, his carefully ordered façade would crumble like cheese.

There was a whoosh and then Peter had disappeared. The chair was still swinging around and around behind him.

* * *

Tootles peered down at Thimble, lying on the floor, unmoving. She was staring at the ceiling and her arms were wrapped around her as if she was cold, although it was actually very hot and stuffy and smoky too. Nibs had cigarettes, but didn't smoke them. He used them for trading material with the Natives. Their parents sometimes gave them interesting information, which they would swap with Nibs for a smoke. Nibs had ducked out on many things that way. It was why he was alive for so long.

Tootles sniffed again, trying to pinpoint the smell. It wasn't the chemical fumes of cigarettes or the electrical surplus of automobiles. It was a woody, smoke, like someone had developed a pyrokinetic Ability while he wasn't looking. Tootles wouldn't be surprised. It probably wasn't Thimble though; People tended not to develop two Abilities at once.

"Thimble," Tootles said, nudging her slightly with his foot, "Thimble, you need to get up."

Thimble rolled away from him so she was facing the wall. It didn't look like she was any closer to getting up and Tootles was getting slightly nervous. Thimble needed motivating. She needed serious motivating with a motivating motivator. He kneeled down next to her.

"Thimble," he hissed, "Peter Pan wants us."

The affect was immediate. Thimble sat bolt upright and muttered something that sounded like: 'My other.' Of course, it could have been: 'My mother,' or 'Why bother?' but he couldn't hear her very well. Maybe smoke muffled sound. Did smoke do that? It could probably do that. Thimble shook her head as if clearing the smoke, or maybe the last remnants of the lethargic un-motivation she was in. If she was, she was taking a long time about it, so Tootles grabbed her arm and started dragging her. Her feet moved heavily as if she were moving through honey or sand. If Tootles had been moving through honey, he would have eaten it, but maybe it would get dirty if you walked through it. Thimble was dirtying the honey.

Tootles realised he had taken the metaphor a tad far. Thimble probably wasn't imagining herself walking through honey. She was walking with the slightly dragging feet of someone with a heavy load, or half-asleep. She was waking up quickly through, her head flitting backwards and forwards like a bird. Like a bird would flick its head, of course, not how a bird flits, although that also would be an apt metaphor. At this thought Tootles cut the metaphor off, lest it become too convoluted.

"Where," said Thimble, "are we going?"

She hadn't spoken for a couple days, since she tried to go back out the window and Tootles wondered if he should congratulate her or something. Of course, if he brought attention to her speaking, he could scare her away from speaking, but if he didn't say anything, she might not think he cared. They probably made her torture someone and could be suffering trauma. What was the cure for trauma? Could you cure trauma?

Tootles couldn't think of anything and realised when Thimble began raising her eyebrows at him, that he hadn't answered her yet. Oh.

"A room," he answered helpfully, than elaborated, "A meeting room, for dinner with Peter Pan."

"And where is this room?" asked Wendy, "Upstairs, downstairs, behind the broom closet, underneath the Fair Folks dorms? In some mystical island, same level as the lobby, top of the tower, bottom of the basement?"

There was no map of Neverland, or perhaps he hadn't seen one yet. Some of the instructors knew the entire place from top to bottom, but from the corridor they were in, Tootles couldn't tell where the entrance or anywhere else was. He knew how to get to some places (mostly by following the person in front of him) but he didn't really know where they were in relation to everywhere else.

"Sorry," he said, in the most apologetic manner he could manage.

Thimble opened her mouth to say something and then shut it quickly. He wondered if he had scared her off speaking again (somehow) and she wouldn't ever speak again. Then Tootles wondered if she had begun to tell him to get lost but realised that she probably didn't want to say that. Tootles was glad. He didn't want her to say that either, it would be ages until he was found again. He would probably end up in the middle of the ocean or something ridiculous.

He stopped and felt skin scrape under shoe as Thimble ran into him and winced. He liked his skin to stay where it belonged, thank you very much. Tootles started to walk backwards, counting the doorhandles backwards from the hexagonal bronze one. That one was Peter Pan's office and as unlikely as it was that Peter would be in there, Tootles didn't feel much like going in.

He stopped and Thimble once again scraped his calf. He winced again. Tootles wondered if that the wind changed his face would remain in a wince forever and hurriedly smoothed his face back into it's normal position.

Thimble peered around him.

"Are you sure this is it?" she asked doubtfully.

"I hope so," said Curly, who had appeared behind them, puffing and panting. Curly had probably ran the entire time there. Curly was always late for things, and got lost even more easily than Tootles did. If Thimble told Curly to get lost they would never see him again. Shame really, Curly was nicer than most.

Curly opened the door, the same time Slightly did on the other side. Slightly was agile enough to jump out of the way of Curly's tumble and gave them all a scathing look.

"NO LOITERING AT THE DOOR!" shouted a voice from inside the room, "ALL MEN FRONT AND CENTRE!"

* * *

Peter Pan was enjoying himself (even if nobody else was). He was a commander and the Lost Boys were his soldiers. They were an army and nothing could stand in their way. He gave another _swith_ of his sword and waited until his soldiers had calmed down.

"MEN!" he shouted in his best army general voice, "WE COME HERE TONIGHT TO PLAN OUR INVASION!"

Beside him, Tink rolled her eyes and Peter ignored her. There were incredulous murmurings among his troops.

"WE WILL TAKE THE CLOCK! WE WILL TAKE THEIR MEN AND WE WILL TAKE THEIR WOMEN AND ANYBODY ELSE LINGERING AROUND!"

"What?" said Thimble. Beside her Tootles had covered his ears with his hands and Curly was looking terrified. Everyone was looking terrified actually, mostly because their prospects were looking quite black. To be sent out to eradicate an entire rebellion group would kill half of them and cripple the other half; Peter was the only one likely to survive in one piece. What they didn't know was that Neverland rarely sent an entire training group out, because that defeated the purpose of a training group. So even Peter was unlikely to survive, although he could take down thirteen men in a fair fight and thirty-five in an unfair one, the Clock had garnered over more than one thousand members and had over a million supporters. They would overtake anything thrown at them with sheer numbers.

What Neverland and indeed the Nation were hoping for was to take out the main cell. Although endowed with great quantities of men and women to fight by their side, the Clock, by virtue of being a rebellion in a highly controlled country, was rather chaotic. The only ones keeping it organised were the people in charge (of which there was a reduced number). To assassinate them would be alike to firing all the librarians in a library or the lifeguards in a pool- bedlam would occur, the kids running around breaking things, getting into places they are not supposed to and people stealing the books and such. Neverland was hoping that the Clock was collapse under its own weight.

All they needed to know was where the main cell was. Neverland kept close tabs on the Nation, but with the multitude of information that was always flowing, it was quite hard to pinpoint where exactly the Clock was. It could be anywhere.

But Neverland had done it. The Clock ran under the river, in a network of old sewerage pipes. The Thames it had used to be called, but now people just hurried past the brown waters with nary a glance. The river had always been there, so the Clock just moved in. The Watcher that had found the rebel group had sniggered at his own cleverness for finding it.

But enough of that for now- continues on the meeting.

"What's the Clock?" she asked.

"IT'S PARTLY A LARGE REBEL GROUP BUT MOSTLY NONE OF YOUR BUISNESS," yelled Peter, back at her, "THEY'LL BE BUSY KILLING YOU TWO THURSDAYS FROM NOW."

"Less school yard bully, more army general," suggested Tink, "And keep the noise levels down a bit, the rest of us are trying to think."

Peter grinned mischievously at her and crowed. It was perhaps a fraction softer than it could have been.

He returned his attention to his troops, only to find Thimble had joined them in looking absolutely terrified.

"STOP LOOKING SO AFRAID, YOU MUST TO BRAVE TO THE CORE!"

"Thimble," said Tinker Bell, who much like Tootles had her hands over her ears, "Kindly ask Peter to not say a word for five minutes."

"Peter," said Thimble, really looking as if she wished to punch Tinker Bell in the face, and keep on punching, until she was dead perhaps, "Don't say anything for five minutes."

Peter sent her a heart-broken betrayed look (beside him Tink bristled) and sulked, poking at Thimble with his sword.

"That's basically it," Tink told them.

"That's all?" said Slightly, who was not prone to playing along. Peter often had to rap him on the knuckles, and so they were red and chapped.

"Yeah, I would have told you all in the morning, but Peter insisted on giving you a briefing."

Besides Tink, Peter was straightening his back and trying to look important.

"And what about dinner?" asked Slightly. His fingers twitched an inch.

"Dinner? Then I would suggest the canteen," said Tink. She pulled out her EPulse and pointed it at them, "Now get out before I start shooting, I'm quite sick of the lot of you, and I have a headache from all that shouting."

They scattered reluctantly.

Five minutes passed with all the time of a broken slinky and Peter rubbed his sore throat. He thought it was from trying to speak under Wendy's Ability but really it was from yelling all the time. Peter didn't cast blame upon himself, he was too cocky for that.

"Why did you make them leave?" he complained, "They missed dinner!"

"I don't think they would be in the mood for dinner. They looked quite mutinous. People being told their time is up tend to do that."

"They would never betray their fellow soldier, their general, their perfect leader!" said Peter, warming up again.

"Yes they would," said Tink, "Even through all that work I've done on them, they probably don't want to die."

Peter shrugged. He wouldn't know about that, he had never died before.

* * *

Wendy tried to stem the flow of blood from her arm, where Peter had poked her arm. The sword had pierced the jumpsuit and she had only her hands to try to stop the bleeding. She didn't mind the crusting blood on her hands- she didn't feel much like eating anyway.

"Want my bread?" asked Tootles, waving a stale slice in front of her face.

"No," said Wendy, "I d-don't want anything. Nothing. Not one slice of b-bread. Not ev-ev-even something nice. Like c-cake. I-I don't want it, whatever it is."

She was shivering, although it was hot and humid in the canteen. She felt like her insides had turned to gas and had evaporated out of her. Wendy felt like she would fold over at any moment.

"Oh," said Tootles, "No, that's good, it's unlikely Peter would have given us anything for dinner anyway."

Slightly walked past and tugged the bread out of Tootles hand, giving it a scathing glance before shoving it in his face and walking away.

"Well," said Thimble.

"Well," said Tootles.

Neither said anything, because there wasn't anything to say.

 **I don't even know what I'm writing anymore…**


	11. Chapter 9

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Nine

 **So. Only one more chapter until the epilogue!**

 **WARNING! If I named my chapters, this one would be called: '** _ **The One Where Everybody Dies.**_ **' Not everybody dies, obviously, otherwise there would be no story left, but there are character deaths.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan in any shape or form, unless you count the plot of this story. J.M Barrie is a genius. A dead genius, but still.**

.

' _One could mention many lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after killing, it was his spectacles he wiped instead of his weapon.'_ \- J.M Barrie, Peter Pan.

Angela was walking through a crowded street. She hoped that nobody noticed her pale face, red and splotchy from weeping all the time and that nobody noticed the way her hands clutched her skirt or the way she was keeping her head down and away from all the cameras.

Angela hoped that nobody noticed the two boys trailing after them, staring the unconcealed delight at things they had never seen before.

"Not much farther now," said Liza beside her, nervously playing with a paper bag she was clutching. It held a hundred and seventeen pounds.

Angela hoped nobody noticed that.

Unfortunately for her, somebody did. The Watcher noticed everything and he noticed it all with a sinking heart. The Darlings and the Robinsons were far away from where they were meant to be, several Living Districts where they were meant to be. They were almost on the other side of the city, and although Nana was yet to join them, they were easy to spot. They were seconds away from being noticed by another Watcher and when that happened, Neverland would notice he had not noticed what he should have noticed and he would be found out. That couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it.

The Watcher, in all his years of Watching and not much else, made a decision. This decision came far too late, as he noticed something he had not noticed before. He could smell burning flesh and there was a sizzling, blackened hole in his chest. Behind him stood Hook.

"Sorry, old friend," said Hook, "The Nation comes first."

The Watcher stood, a feat within itself and noticed all the things he hadn't noticed before. His apartment (which he was in) had a very lovely view. He could smell the smoke from the pipe Hook smoked.

The Watcher took a couple steps and fell to his knees. He noticed he couldn't bleed to death, because the EPulse had cauterised the wound. He could hear the playing of children in the street, of Jane telling them off and the sunlight played through the windows. He could see the swirling dust catch the light. He had never noticed that before.

The Watcher fell out the door of his apartment and flat onto his face. He could smell the wood and feel the grains of it underneath his fingers. All the things he watched for, all the things he noticed, and he never really _saw_ them.

He looked up into the shocked face of Nana and said: "I guess this is it, then?"

Nana looked down at the dying face of Smee and said (in a shaking voice): "I guess so."

She gave herself a few moments to compose herself before moving sternly forwards. She needed to leave. Her family needed to leave. It was too late for Smee. He had already left.

"You're not going anywhere," said James, the nice man from George's office. He didn't look as nice as he had always done.

He stood in her way. Nana considered him for a moment, then punched him in the face. There was no ladylike way about it, which she regretted, but he had a surprised look the entire way down. Nana moved around the bodies and hurried down the stairs. She had an appointment to get to.

.

They were meant to be blending in and Slightly was doing an extraordinary job. Wendy thought he was doing a little too well, actually. Tinker Bell had decided that a pub had the best view of the river and was the closest possible spot to the Clock's hub. She had brought them there, told them that they were to break in when their EPulse's buzzed and left them. They were all huddled in a dark corner out of sight, except for Nibs, who was regaling wharfies with tales and jokes, and Slightly, who had to be downing his sixth glass of beer at the bar. He was swaying slightly and he fit in very well.

Wendy was sure that she was far too young to be in a pub, but they were illegal anyway, so it wasn't as if anyone would care she was there.

"What's a pub?" said John from next to her and she jumped and stared at the spot his voice had come from. There was nobody there, but before she had time to consider the matter further, Peter Pan strolled up to her. Nobody gave him more than a cursory glance as he walked by them.

"All right, troops!" he whisper shouted gleefully, rubbing his hands together, "Time to move out!"

Slightly fell off his stool and slumped to the ground, so Nibs dragged him along as he walked past. They all filed after Peter, heads bowed like a procession of mourners. Wendy lagged behind with Nibs, who was towing Slightly. Slightly hadn't even begun to wake and was drooling.

"He can't fight like that," said Wendy, "He won't know where he is once he wakes up, for one, and for another, he'll be too drunk to stay alive for more than five seconds. I think even I could do a little better than that. Hopefully."

Nibs showed her a thin sleek needle. He had gotten it from Great Big Little Panther and had known it would hurt like hell. He also had known that Slightly would get drunk.

"It'll burn the alcohol from his blood," said Nibs and jabbed it into Slightly's arm.

"Wait, what do you mean burn-" began Wendy, but was distracted by Slightly, who had shuddered in one great big tremor that shook him from head to toe. He began screaming, at first a faint keening sound, then louder and hoarser until it became an unsettling (and very loud) screech. His shudders became shakes.

"It's not meant to be that potent," said Nibs worriedly, "He must have drunk a lot."

Nibs had every right to be worried, because in delicate operations where the element of surprise was critical, someone screaming before the attack tended to give the game away, and Wendy found herself having to divert attention from the screaming Slightly to the yells of peoples and the _hsssth_ 's of EPulse's. She hadn't been paying attention to where she was going and almost hit her head on a steel girder before she realised that she was under a bridge. To her right, where people were flowing towards her, was a hologram projecting a wall with graffiti on it. Wendy hadn't time to look at it properly, but it was a picture of a clock, and underneath it was printed:

 _Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock  
The Nation's time is up._

Wendy didn't look at it, because she was busy ducking a shot aimed at her. She was wondering how she had managed it, because the EPulse was many times faster than a bullet, when she realised the man shooting, an old grey man, was shooting above her, a warning shot.

Wendy took a deep breath and carefully aimed, flicking the settings as high as they could go. She didn't want to stuff this up. She aimed and she fired. The man fell over his own feet and fell to the ground. His eyes were open in death. Wendy stared at him. She stared at him and willed herself to look away. She couldn't look away, just stand and stare.

A knife whistled by her ear, nicking it, and Tootles was there, pushing her to the ground. His face was sweaty and he was bleeding from his knee. He looked Thimble up and down and hoped she hadn't frozen up under pressure, because that was an easy way to die here. It wasn't the only way to die, of course, there was blood loss, EPulse shot, bullet, knife, anything really.

He peered around the column he had dragged himself and Thimble to and winced. Curly was lying spread-eagled on the floor, bleeding profusely. He was probably dead. Slightly was still screaming on the ground, but this time he had a knife in his eye. Everybody was ignoring him. Nibs and Peter were nowhere to be seen in the rush and the Twins were teleporting to each other too quickly to keep track of.

Tootles wondered if they were going to make it. Tootles wondered if he was going to make it. He would very much like to make it. He liked being alive and was not looking forward to dying at all. Dying was often messy and painful, accompanied by tears. Tootles did not think he would enjoy being dead at all. It would be rather lonely.

Tootles stood. He could see the entrance, covered by a badly flickering hologram. He could make it there. He was sure he could make it there. Tootles wasn't entirely sure why he was running towards a heavily guarded rebel base, but he was, his feet scrabbling on the gravel. The closer he got, the more elated he became. He could make it. He was going to make it. He was going to-

.

"Where's George?" asked Nana, her voice sharp.

"He was going to meet us there," Angela told her, cowed.

They walked quickly and John and Michael clutched Liza's hands, silenced and subdued by the tension and terror in the air.

Nana shook her head despairingly and broke into what was almost a run.

"Your George has been set up," she said, "James works for Neverland."

The cold hand clutching Angela's heart squeezed painfully and she broke into a run to keep up with Nana. They had to warn George, they had to leave, they had to save the children.

"James will catch up to us in a couple minutes," warned Nana, "I only knocked him out."

Not even bothering to be surprised by the news, they all ran faster. Sure enough, barrelling behind them came James. Liza had money to give him, but he didn't look as if he wanted money. He looked as if he wanted blood.

They skidded around a corner, Liza pulling the boys into a rundown looking store and Angela and Nana dived in behind the racks of clothes behind them. James kept running full pelt past them and with a sinking feeling Angela realised it wasn't their blood he wanted.

"We have to keep going," she said.

"We'll go across the riverfront," said Nana, "It should be faster, we'll make it before him."

They scrambled out of the fallen piles of clothes, making hurried apologies behind them. Ducking under several chain-link fences, they made it onto an old road overgrown with weeds. Angela looked at the swirling rush of brown muddy water and shuddered. It was disgustingly dirty and as she began running beside it, she hoped that it wouldn't stay that way all the way out to sea. Brown wasn't exactly the colour of hope and Angela could see abandoned things in the water- crates, old toys, broken machinery and rubbish. It looked impossible to navigate.

Michael screamed out as he tripped over on the uneven surface, scraping his knee on the concrete. Liza had to gather him up in her arms and keep on running.

"I want to stop!" he wept, "I want to stop!"

"We can't," said Liza, "Or they'll catch us and they'll catch Mr Darling."

Liza could see the man up ahead. He must have had the same idea as Nana, but had settled into a pace of jogging, instead of the frantic running she was doing. She wondered if they were going to be fast enough.

.

Wendy could hear screaming in her ears. It sounded vaguely like Michael but she ignored it. Everything she heard sounded like her mother, her father, Garret, Nana, John. She couldn't bear it, but now she wasn't listening. Wendy was watching Tootles fall to the ground. He was dead.

It was like being jolted awake. All the things being blocked out, the people fighting, the sounds of the river, the last slices of sun, cleared. She blinked and stood, clutching her EPulse close to her chest. Wendy gritted her teeth. She was unsure of what to do. Should she stay here and fight or should she go inside the hub and kill? Wendy didn't think she could handle either to be honest.

"Wendy!" shouted her mother from behind her.

Wendy turned and saw her mother running on the other side of the river. Nana and Liza were with her and so were the boys. They were running as fast as it were possible for two middle aged women, two little boys and one old lady. They were chasing after a man….

Wendy squinted at him. Was that Hook? Was she hallucinating? They certainly looked very solid.

They passed by her on the opposite bank and, unsure at first, Wendy abandoned the fight and began to follow after them. She was barely aware of someone chasing after her. This someone was a Twin, who had decided with his brother that it was well worth it to follow Wendy. If one Twin needed a quick escape, well, they were as far away as possible, weren't they?

Wendy hadn't yet spotted him, as she was focusing fully on her family and also on not tripping up on the gravel.

"Mum!" she shouted, "Where are you going?"

"The docks!" Mrs. Darling shouted back, "George had been set up, by James."

"James?" asked the Twin, causing Wendy to stumble and stub her toe on a fallen brick slab in surprise. The Twin drew level with her and helped her upright.

"I think… she means Hook," Wendy explained, slightly out of breath. She pointed to the Head Instructor. Now the Twin stumbled in surprise.

Wendy studied him from the corner of her eye. It was certainly odd to see only one twin- usually they stuck to the other's side like glue. The entire procession was odd, in fact. People walking along the street were staring at them. There was a man in old-fashioned clothes, with a hook for a hand and a weapon in the other. He was chased by a pretty woman, a mother hauling her children along and a very old lady. On the other bank was a girl in a dress over a jumpsuit, brandishing an EPulse and a boy, also brandishing an EPulse. A man rowing past would tell the story many times over the next couple weeks, each time it growing stranger, until it also contained several dragons, a dwarf and a flamingo. The man died before it got any more ridiculous, killed by Neverland for seeing too much.

 **I feel so bad. I made Smee good (well, for a guy watching kids being sent to their deaths and doing nothing) and Peter Pan bad. Smee is a sociopath and I made him good. I didn't even know I was going to do that until I was considering the least likely outcome of the Watcher situation and came upon:**

 **Smee is the Watcher.**

 **And then I laughed because I thought it was hilarious and then I thought** _ **actually, I could do that**_ **. So I did, because fanfiction. If you saw that coming, then I applaud you, because I didn't even see that coming.**


	12. Chapter 10

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Chapter Ten

 **Last chapter. I've decided to release the epilogue on the 22** **nd** **of July, which is when I began, so it'll be like a year anniversary. Or something, yeah I dunno. I'm sorry if this chapter is a little short.**

 **Also, I'm not sure how the Thames works, so I say that all this takes place on reclaimed land. So there.**

 **Disclaimer: I ain't not got no claims on no things of no Barrie's.**

.

" _Very frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was as if he had been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap."_ – J.M Barry, Peter Pan

.

George Darling checked his watch, which kept perfect time. James was late and so was Angela, for that matter. He hoped they weren't lost or captured, or worse, dead. He checked his watch again, just in case the time had changed within the last five seconds. It had, but only by five seconds. He heaved a sigh and paced the deck of the boat, nervous and impatient, sending wary glances at all the passers-by.

"George!"

"Mr Darling!"

"Dad!"

George turned on his heel and saw his family running towards him, waving their arms. He smiled and waved back. They waved harder.

"RUN!" they shouted.

George saw James raise an EPulse in his direction and decided to follow their advise with no other second opinion. He leapt out of the boat and began to run.

WASSSHH!

He hadn't understood what had happened- one moment he was running as fast as possible, the next he was enclose by stained water. Then he understood. The water was stained red. He had been shot by an old-fashioned weapon, a pistol, and he was bleeding to death, if he didn't drown first.

He didn't drown though. Wendy saw to that.

"Come back up!" she yelled, "Please, dad."

He started to swim towards the yellow tinted light. He reached the surface. He took a breath.

Hook shot him again and the red stain spread. Wendy screeched and skidded onto a bridge, running straight towards Hook.

"Wait!" yelled the Twin, sprinting after her, "It'll be like shooting fi-"

For a moment, the Twin seemed suspended in mid-air, until he toppled to the ground. He seemed to still be breathing, although bleeding, so Wendy hefted him onto her shoulder and darted to the side. She lifted her EPulse and shot Hook repeatedly. Wendy only stopped when her mother hefted the Twin from the other side and dragged them both onto the boat. Nana manoeuvred the controls and soon they were speeding away, the Nation disappearing behind them.

"You didn't see us!" Wendy shouted at a checkpoint as they sped past.

"Wendy," said Michael, tugging on the dress Tinker Ball gave Wendy to wear. For a moment Wendy thought he was going to ask her where on earth she had been, but instead:

"How does Nana know how to drive a boat?"

Wendy was rather keen to know herself, but instead replied; "Nana is an old lady and old ladies know everything there is to know, and everything else there isn't."

"Really?" said Peter Pan from behind her, "I didn't know that."

Wendy twirled and came face to face with him. Peter was floating behind her looking interested.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, shielding Michael with her body. The rest of her family was mourning in the wheelhouse.

"Just seeing where you were going," he said, flapping his hand. Wendy did not look convinced. As it happened, she had every right not to be.

Tinker Bell lunged from the side of the boat where she had been hovering, silently and wrapped her hands around Wendy's throat. Wendy gagged and only had the time to gasp out a couple words. Thankfully, they were all she needed.

"Kill….Peter….Pan," she choked out.

A single tear carved a line across Tink's perfect face as she turned, then a single tear carved a line across her chest, a red, deep tear caused by Peter's sword. Tink stumbled backwards and rolled over the boat and soon she had disappeared into the waves.

"Thank you!" said Peter gleefully, as if he had machinated the last couple months purely to get rid of Tinker Bell. Who knew, maybe he had? It was Peter Pan after all. He crowed a blood chilling crow, and left.

Wendy turned back to the Twin and Michael. Michael had his arms wrapped around himself and was breathing quickly and shallowly. The Twin wasn't breathing at all.

.

The bridge was rubble and only two figures stumbled out of it. One of them was Slightly, a grime strip of fabric covering his eye. He was still whimpering and the haughty look he seemed to carry had faded into a look of terror and shame. He had ruined it all.

The other was a Twin, the one who wasn't dead. He had run into a woman with the Ability to drain consciousness and had just stood there slowly drifting into darkness before he managed to knock himself out by falling and hitting his head on the pavement. When he had woken up it had all been over. He had dug himself out of the rubble and rescued Slightly, who had still been screaming.

The Twin scanned his surrounding and couldn't see the silhouette of Tinker Bell anywhere, despite her promise that she would pick them up after they had finished.

 _Maybe she thinks that we're all dead_ , he thought glumly.

They mostly were dead. Tootles hadn't even made it inside before he had died, Curly had bled to death, Nibs had been blown to pieces and Peter, Thimble, and his twin had disappeared. They were probably dead too. The Clock simply had too many people for such a small team to overcome. All they had to do was make it inside and they had failed. They had lost the element of surprise, and all because of Slightly.

A surge of hatred rose up within him and he felt like grabbing a piece of the rubble and slamming it into Slightly's head, again and again until he joined the dead on the ground. The Twin restrained himself and settled for punching Slightly has hard as he could in the wounded eye. Slightly cried out as he fell against a broken column.

"You idiot!" ranted the Twin, feeling the anger fizz through his veins. His hands shook. "You messed everything up!" He raised his foot, before bringing it down on Slightly's ribs, as hard as he could, punctuating each word; "You. Ruined. Everything."

Slightly gave a cough, a bloody cough that wiped the terror from the Twin. He knelt beside Slightly and pulled him back up, guiltily.

"I'm so sorry," said the Twin.

Slightly fell to his knees and threw up. "We shod eaves," he said.

"What?"

Slightly wiped the blood and vomit from his mouth, "I said we should leave."

The Twin and Slightly hobbled out of sight together.

 **This story is finished, sans the epilogue. It's pretty shoddy, all things considered. I change styles about fifty times, changed the spellings of names about eighty times and the layout changed about every chapter. Most of it is filler and most of it is pretty vague. The characterisations don't really stay the same throughout and it is pitted with plot holes. I'm just going to do what I do with every other awful story I've written, and just leave it here for a year to simmer, before I rewrite it. Consider this the first draft, if I ever end up editing it.**

 **Because this is pretty much the end of this story, this means that a slot has opened up for a new story. Send prompts by PMs (check my profile for details) and something will be decided when the epilogue comes out. Whatever it is, rest assured that if you send in a prompt it'll be finished someday.**


	13. Epilogue

Nᶒvᶒяlaᵰd

Epilogue

 **So. Epilogue. I finally made it. I'm not sure what I wrote but goddamnit it is** _ **weird**_ **.**

 **Maya50dance: Thankyou. I pride myself on psychotic creativity. Destroying fantasy is what I do.**

 **Guest: I don't know either. That basically sums up all that is wrong with this story.**

 **Disclaimer: Nobody owns Peter Pan and neither do I.**

* * *

" _Of course, nobody seems to know, but he quite seemed to know."_ –JM Barrie, Peter Pan

* * *

Wendy dipped her feet into the water. She could see how clear it was, except for the white foam left in their wake. She hadn't ever seen water so clean. There were no automobiles outside her bedroom window, or people chatting, or Tinker Bell waking her up by shouting or Tiger Lily throwing her into a pool so she could learn how to swim.

… _.now is the time…._

Wendy hadn't known where Peter went, but the Nation had lost him. He liked having fun far too much and had disappeared somewhere into the heavens. Perhaps he had going to blow out the stars. Perhaps he was going to blow up a space station. It didn't matter, because at night she could hear him crowing in her sleep and would awake with a start.

It would turn out to be nothing and she would roll in her makeshift bed, trying to get back to sleep despite her roiling thoughts.

 _.…to be put into bed…_

Someone was singing, behind her where the Twin's body lay. She hadn't wanted to move it but it had begun to smell.

… _.to try not to listen…_

It was a soft song. It was a song she knew well, that reminded her of simple happy days, dancing to the piano. It was Tumbalalaika. She turned and stared.

… _.to ghosts in your head…._

It was the Twin, the other Twin, leaning over his brothers body and singing as he cried, his eyes going red, and puffy like buns in the oven. Slightly was sitting there as well, not looking at either of them. He was ashamed, and angry at himself and was curled up against the wall of the wheelhouse, trying not to cough too loudly. His bile was dark red and thick.

… _.do not regret…._

It was a song she had heard before, the words were newer than the song itself. They had played that song when they had tortured her, over and over again, punctuating the awful overbearing silence.

 _...you left them for dead….._

Wendy shuddered and began to cry, a heaving sobbing cry of a newborn. Slightly started and she noticed he was crying too, for all the dead. They were all crying for the dead.

… _.and kept moving on….._

Her mother rushed out, taking no notice of the new people on board and swept her up in a squeezing hug. She didn't push away and leant into it, bawling. Angela patted her hair. She was so glad Wendy was back, that she came back, that she was like all children were.

… _.while swiftly they bled…._

Happy and innocent and compassionate.

FIN

* * *

 **Well that was short. Why did I even have an epilogue again?**

 **Ah, finally I can go mess up somebody else's book. There may be a return to this with a rewrite but don't keep your hopes up. Nobody PMed with a prompt (to be honest, I wouldn't trust me with my stories either) so if you desperately need to know what story I'm murdering next, check my profile in about a week.**


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